


No Document

by imperfectkreis



Series: binary sea [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, Androids, Bisexuality, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 67,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MacCready really should have waited out for a different cap-cow. One who doesn't run directly into clouds of gunfire. One who doesn't give a whole new meaning to the word homeless. One who doesn't travel with a synth that makes all the hairs on MacCready's arms stand straight up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Learn to read the titles because damn, effort right here.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Документ недоступен](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14002098) by [Blacki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blacki/pseuds/Blacki)



Sure, MacCready’s heard the rumors, about that vault dweller who crawled out of the ground with ‘111’ scratched across his back. Not literally, mind you, but might as well been literal, because even though he doesn't wear the blue suit anymore, it's hard to scrub the vault off, smelling like lemon-scented detergent and dust. Guy still looks shiny and new, like a pressed copper penny. He's tall and sturdy, with curly hair he wears tied back in a low ponytail. Easy smile and easier gait as he asks, “What was that about?”

MacCready isn't about to show his hand, because his cards usually get him in trouble. “Gunners have trouble taking no for an answer. Even when it's in their best interests.” He sort of wishes he still smoked, because the vault dweller pulls out his pack and holds it out like a peace offering. “Don't smoke anymore,” MacCready declines.

Vaultie shrugs his shoulders, “I gave it up before the war. Nothing like witnessing nuclear annihilation to make you pick up bad habits again.”

That rumor has been circulating too. One-eleven was some sort of cryo facility. And this guy was born before the bombs fell, put on ice, defrosted like pristine, expensive meat. The finest cut. No freezer burn either. Speaking of which, MacCready hasn't been able to afford a hot meal in a week. Makes his stomach hurt to think about. Would be nice, to eat something fresh and warm.

Vaultie sticks his hand out again, this time it's empty. “Vishnu Weiss,” he introduces himself, “and you are?”

MacCready will at the least shake the man's hand. He's gotta start making judgements too. Like if Weiss packs enough caps to be worth MacCready’s time. Weiss carries an expensive looking laser pistol on his hip and his leathers are scuffed, but sturdy. So, he's not poor. It's a start.

“MacCready. And you, you look like a man in need of a gun,” he tests the waters.

Weiss barks a laugh, “got a gun,” he pulls the pistol from his hip. Turning it over and over in his hands, he looks like he's assessing it. “Seems to work fine for me.” Weiss holds out the gun, handle first for MacCready to take, like he wants MacCready to agree it's a good gun.

“That's not what I meant.” Weiss is trying to be charming, or cute, or something. “Besides, little thing like that can only do so much.” MacCready inclines his head towards the armchair where his sniper rifle leans. “Could provide tactical support, for the right price.”

“Yeah?” Weiss puts out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. He's tall enough that he really has to bend over to reach. “How good are you? Because I already got a friend.”

Just then this synth comes in from the Third Rail lounge. Doesn't look like any synth MacCready’s ever seen, though. And he's seen enough since coming to the Commonwealth for three or four lifetimes. The machine is this weird sort of...in between. He's got a face, managed that much, but it doesn't look like skin, still all silver, tarnished. It's parched where it pulls apart at the synth’s neck, exposing a bundle of wires at its throat. Like the silicone is starting to dry up and crack.

“Get what you needed?” It talks almost human too, just a little garble at the edges, not entirely unpleasant, but enough to break the illusion of a human voice. 

“Not yet, hey, Valentine, what's your feelings on mercs?” Weiss asks. His eyes dart between the synth and MacCready.

“Useful in a bind. But you can only trust them as far as you can throw them.” The synth, Valentine, pauses to chuckle. “So I suppose you can trust them a fair bit more than other folks, Weiss.”

Weiss smirks like that's some sort of great joke between the two of them. MacCready doesn't think Weiss could be all that strong. He's tall sure, but kind of lanky. Course, he doesn't know what’s under the vaultie’s armor.

“How much?” Weiss turns his attention back to MacCready.

“Two-fifty, non-negotiable.”

Weiss has these black eyes, the sort where you can't really tell what a guy is thinking. If he's gonna rob you blind or patch you up or what. The way he's always half-smiling doesn't help. He taps one tobacco-stained finger against his bottom lip. “Everything is negotiable. Two-hundred. Plus we find a lot of shit. You can make up the rest.”

MacCready doesn't want to take the offer. He doesn't. Giving into a lower price up front means this guy is going to walk all over him, start to finish. But that's still two-hundred more caps than he has to his name right now. And it's not like MacCready is getting a lot of offers as of late. His stomach sinks, but he knows he's got to take Weiss’ offer up.

“Deal.”

The synth tisks. “Whatever you think is best. This is your show, after all, I'm just a bit part.”

While MacCready is plenty used to humans underestimating him, man, even people estimating him about right. It's another thing altogether to feel disapproval wafting off this synth. But MacCready keeps his mouth shut about it. Weiss seems to trust the synth, and Weiss is also paying MacCready’s way, from here on out, so he's got no choice.

\--

Weiss doesn't want to spend the night in Goodneighbor. MacCready isn't going to argue with that, nope, not one bit. Good riddance. Only in Goodneighbor, nobody much asks him about his ‘friends’ who come to visit suspiciously on the regular. But if he gets out of town, well, maybe those chumps will be less likely to catch up to him. MacCready can only hope.

So, yeah, it's not so bad that Weiss wants to get out of Goodneighbor, only MacCready didn't realize they were going to have to cut a path through a raider camp to catch a decent cot.

The three of them, MacCready, Weiss, and Valentine, crouch nearly one on top of another behind a pile of rubble between two blown open Fens buildings. The raider camp is up ahead, with their trashcan fires, rotting wooden walls, and flea-ridden mattresses. Weiss makes it sound real homely. He keeps his voice low.

“Caps, fire, food, and chems. It’ll be a real paradise. For tonight, at least.” His pipboy light is technically off, but there's still a faint glow to it, lighting his white teeth a sort of sickly amber when he smiles. MacCready has to remind himself that's what his own teeth look like all the time. Sort of...yellowed. No avoiding it.

Weiss grabs a chunk of broken cinder block twice the size of his hand off the ground. Sticking his head up and over the rubble pile, he chucks the chunk into the center of the camp. Normal person would throw a frag grenade, something to do some real damage.

In the distance they hear one raider perk up, “What was that?”

Weiss doesn't even flinch. His eyes are glued to his pipboy screen, frowning slightly. “Six, I think...yeah six of them.” He looks up, turning to Valentine first, “You ready, Val?”

“I believe I politely asked you to stop calling me that.” There's not much annoyance in Valentine’s voice. If anything, the kind of amusement that comes from resignation. “Ready as I'll ever be.” The synth pops a fusion cell pack into his rifle without looking at what he's doing. MacCready’s been shooting since he was ten and still couldn't do it as a fast.

“Time to demonstrate the usefulness of your ‘tactical support,’ MacCready.”

Weiss doesn't wait after that, rounding the rubble pile, pistol drawn and heading towards the camp. 

Shi-shoot. He doesn't give MacCready time to get into any sort of worthwhile position. Best he can do is climb the damn rubble pile and hope the raiders are more interested in the vaultie with a death wish and the busted up synth than they are in MacCready. Maybe, after those two are dead, he’ll wait for the raiders to calm down and swipe the other fifty caps he wanted off of Weiss’s corpse.

The rubble gives under MacCready’s feet as he climbs, but only a little. He manages to scramble to the top of the pile, cutting one hand against a sharp piece of metal sticking out. Wiping the blood away on his pants, he swings his rifle back around to aim. 

He can't see Weiss anymore, but he can see Valentine, hiding just outside the wall of the camp, his back pressed against the wood barrier, prepared to fire. MacCready waits.

Laser fire comes from inside the camp, short and rapid, eight shots all at once before one of the raiders disintegrates into ash on the final shot. Still, he can't see Weiss. Stealth Boy, must be. MacCready doesn't have time to wait, because he has to at least try and keep Weiss alive. Really, he doesn't want Weiss to die, either. He's callous, sure, but MacCready knows he's still a decent human being.

Lining up his shot, MacCready takes the head off of the raider perched in the nest. He may be at a height disadvantage, the rubble isn't a great location, but he's also not blasted on chems and scared out of his ten remaining brain cells about unexpected visitors. 

In the end, there are four ash piles and two corpses.

“I'm telling you,” Weiss starts, “three of those are mine, Val.”

“Oh yeah?” Valentine smiles, reloading his rifle. “Prove it.”

MacCready trots up to them when he's sure all the raiders are done. No dogs, this time.

“Ash is ash, I suppose,” Weiss holsters his pistol and reaches for his back pocket. Normal, reasonable wasters use easily accessible pockets for ammo. Weiss uses them for cigarettes. 

MacCready holds up his hand, hoping his request is self evident, “I need a stim.”

“Oh,” Weiss swings his pack around so it's against his chest. Finding a stimpak, he uncaps it with his teeth before shoving it unceremoniously into MacCready’s upturned hand.

“Fu-ahhh. Warn a guy next time.” MacCready shakes his hand out. Well, at least it’s starting to feel better. He doesn't watch as the wound stitches closed, always makes him nauseous to look at. But he can feel it working.

Valentine starts assessing the camp on his own. MacCready just looks around mutely. If he's not going to be asked his opinion on matters, he's not going to offer it up. Best that way. There are four mattresses. One’s covered in raider guts, another in...something else. He can make a guess what the raiders used that one for. There is enough food for the three of them, sure. And some dirty water to top things off. Great, just...great.

Weiss gets excited about a pack of gum, pulling out two sticks and showing Valentine the jokes that are on the wrappers. “I loved these as a kid.”

MacCready starts going through some wooden boxes himself, looking for anything at all appetizing. In the end, he starts boiling the irradiated water over the fire. He reads the back of a 200 year old box of blam-o. No milk, but he can substitute oil for the butter. There was oil somewhere.

While they eat, MacCready keeps quiet, listens to himself chew soggy mac and cheese and to Weiss’ endless prattle. He talks to Valentine like the two are old friends, though that's not possible. Weiss brushes his hair out of his eyes when it falls forward. “And so, that's when I decided to go into law.”

“Law?” MacCready realizes too late that he's spoken up. “Rumor was you were military. I mean, before.”

Weiss seems just thrilled that MacCready has joined the conversation. “Was, signed up when I turned eighteen. There were...complications, though. Military agreed less with me than I agreed with the military. Nate, though,” Weiss’s face drops. “Never mind. But yeah, I wasn't there for long.”

“Can tell.” MacCready doesn't elaborate.

They need to sleep in shifts, so only having two viable mattresses isn't a problem. Weiss says he’ll take the first shift. Valentine reminds him that's crazy. As a synth, he doesn't have to sleep. “And after being cryogenically suspended for two hundred years, believe me, I can stay up a few more hours.”

Weiss and Valentine are still bickering when MacCready just takes the nicer of the two cots for himself. Nicer being relative. Their chatter doesn't prevent him from sleeping, he won't admit to it, but he's missed the noise of children arguing. Even if these two are...well one is grown and one never was a child. Weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has some spoilers for MacCready and Valentine companion conversations and quests. Also plot quests through Reunions.


	2. Coming to grips with the terms of necessity

MacCready doesn't know exactly how the argument last night between Weiss and Valentine ends. He does know that Weiss is passed out on the second cot, his long arms and legs curled up to fit, or maybe he's just trying to keep the chill out of his bones. MacCready only wakes because it's freezing. That, and the first tendrils of light are starting to peek through green-tinged clouds. 

Sitting up on the mattress, MacCready concedes that it's probably too late to go back to bed. He stretches out, his fists accidentally smashing into the wooden frame behind his head, rattling the whole shack. Weiss doesn't stir.

If they can manage it, he wouldn't mind eating again. If Weiss is pressed for time, he doesn't let on, so MacCready starts looking for something to prepare. Instamash mixed cram or something. Whatever he can manage to find. One of the trashcan fires is still going strong. They’ll be able to eat something warm.

“You're up early. Well, I suppose Weiss and I bickering like some old marrieds didn't keep you up all hours, eh?” Valentine turns his illuminated eyes from the trashed road ahead and over to the fire where MacCready is just starting to pull the powdered instamash out of the box. 

The synth, like the vaultie, smiles a lot. Like they're both in on a joke that MacCready doesn't get. For a horrifying moment, MacCready worries that he's the joke. 

“Light sleeper,” MacCready lies. He can sleep like he's dead, given the chance.

“And diligent chef,” Valentine says.

MacCready turns his attention back to the fire, mixing water in with the mash and waiting for it to start simmering. “Everyone from home had to cook. Split up the duties.”

Valentine nods. Turning his eyes back to the road, he just keeps on talking. “Let me guess. With that accent? South. But not too far? Maryland….maybe the Capital?”

MacCready stops stirring the mash. It'll get too flat if he pops all the air bubbles before they're ready. Lighter, fluffier if they explode from the inside. “Yeah. Capital.” It's not a secret, where he's from. But it's still unnerving to have it guessed so easily by a stranger. Even if that stranger isn't a person. Valentine probably has like, a database of accents it can draw upon, sort them at crazy speeds or something. Pinpoint MacCready to a square city block.

“Closed off too, not offering more information than strictly necessary. Can cook from scraps. Excellent shot, but you can't be more than,” the glowing eyes flick back. This time MacCready tries not to look directly at them, focusing instead on the meal he's got going. “Twenty-three? You grew up an orphan.” The last part is a statement, not a question.

“Hey!” MacCready shouts louder than he should. “Stop using your Institute shi-stuff on me? Okay? Stop analyzing.” He tries to take the anger back out of his voice. But he feels so weirdly violated. Like the synth is turning him inside out with his words instead of its claws. “It's rude.”

“No, no Institute shit. Just detective work. Don't you know, kid?”

There's a groan from the cot. Weiss is up, cracking his shoulders and rolling out of bed. His curls have come loose, starting to flatten out too. MacCready spots the tin he pulls out of his pack. Yellow and green. Mentats. Weiss takes two dry, choking them down.

“Don't call me kid either,” MacCready turns his attention back to Valentine.

Valentine starts coming down from the crow's nest, his laser rifle pressed against his shoulder like an old-world armed guard. His posture is just as good too. “You're about ten years younger than that one,” he nods in Weiss’s direction, “so, congratulations, you're now kid. Consider it a promotion.” He slaps MacCready’s shoulder harder than strictly necessary. MacCready filches, but holds his ground.

When Weiss finally makes it over to the fire can, MacCready holds out a warm nuka-cola for him to take. He's already used up the water for cooking, not that anyone would really want to drink the dirty stuff straight.

“What’s this for?” Weiss questions. But he chugs down half the bottle waiting for MacCready’s answer.

“Hard thing, to take those dry.” He doesn't bother elaborating.

Weiss grunts and puts his finger into the hot mash, burning it against the side of the pot. Sticking his finger into his mouth, he curses up a storm, a string of ‘shits’ and ‘fucks’ until the pain goes away.

\--

In Diamond City, everyone knows Valentine. They call him detective. Almost everyone knows Weiss. They call him Vishnu. No one knows MacCready, so they don't call him anything. That's fine. Getting high profile in a place like Diamond City isn't exactly on MacCready’s to do list, so he pops his collar up, pulls his hat down, and keeps his mouth shut.

Weiss shuffles them all into the newspaper office, quick as he can manage, though there's no shortage of slack-jawed townies trying to get his attention. Valentine’s too. With a wave of his hand, Weiss promises, “Later, I swear, you can hold me to that,” with a smile.

“You sure you weren't a politician back in the old world?” MacCready asks, once the Publick Occurrences’ door is tightly sealed.

Weiss responds, “Too many skeletons, not enough closets. Never would have worked out for me.” He calls up the stairs, “Piper! Babe!”

“Piper said to quit calling her that,” Valentine sticks his spidery exposed fingers into the pockets of his trench.

“Down in a second, Blue!” She calls.

“And I told her to stop calling me that. So now we’re even.” Weiss goes to light his cigarette, but when a girl of about fourteen comes through the front door, he stops himself. Sticking his cigarette back into the pack, he asks her, “Nat, what's the latest?”

MacCready looks around the modest office, while Weiss talks to the girl. It's tidy, though there are stacks of old, pre-war paper that come up almost to his waist. They must reuse it to print the new papers, somehow.

Like everyone else in the Commonwealth, he reads Publick Occurrences, when it's around. The paper publishes regularly, but not on a set schedule. And often the best issues, the ones that mean something to someone, are hard to come by. Still, there tends to be copies floating around Goodneighbor. Nothing makes the scummy place like Goodneighbor feel better about itself than reading about how the Jewel is just as dirty. If not more so.

Piper practically bounces down the stairs, a stack of yellowed paper in her hands. Her black hair lays flat under her cap, stringy and unwashed. The red veins in her eyes are apparent. But through all that, she's unmistakably pretty. MacCready’s read her work, of course. She writes in this straightforward, unadorned sort of way. Doesn't surprise him in the least that she looks just right in the same natural, effortless way that she writes.

“Got anything for us, babe?” Weiss leans against the railing of the stairs, threading his arm through the bars.

“A couple of leads on laser fire that weren't immediately attributed to you two,” she clearly means Weiss and Valentine. “So, either Institute or Gunners. May be worth your while in either case.”

“I’ll take what I can get. Here,” Weiss holds out his pipboy’ed arm for Piper to take a look at, “Just mark down the locations.” He steps away from the staircase.

Piper rounds around Weiss so she can operate his pipboy. The two stand remarkably close without any hint of discomfort or awkwardness. She has to put her eyes close to the screen while she turns the dial. MacCready gets back to wandering the office. There’s nothing to see, but at least looking keeps him occupied. 

“Catching up on the latest comings and goings?” Valentine sneaks up behind MacCready, startling him out of his boots. Would’ve expected him to be louder, with all those still-exposed joints and fissures. “Seems to me there are a lot more goings as of late. Keeps me in business, but honestly, I'd rather go out, if this is the alternative.” 

“Yeah,” MacCready answers once he’s gotten hold of his breathing. He shouldn’t have gotten surprised like that. “Institute, takes people every day, replaces them with...you know, synths.”

Valentine chuckles, “At least with me, you know what you’re getting in for. I think that makes me more palatable to the populace.”

“Yeah,” MacCready agrees. He hadn’t thought about it like that. But it really makes sense. Valentine’s uncanniness is an asset, rather than a liability. With the visible wires and cracking skin, there isn't any mistaking him for human.

MacCready doesn’t have anything against synths. Not really. They’re just trying to look out for themselves, like everyone else. MacCready can accept that, admire it, even. Survival is worth admiration. Always.

The part that scares him, though, really terrifies him, is the idea of going lost. That what Piper writes is true, and MacCready’s got no reason to think her paper prints out and out lies, and the Institute are snatching up real bodies, replacing them with synths. And yeah, MacCready worries about being taken, because those synths, they won’t know the promises MacCready has made. Though maybe, no, he can't think about that.

“So tell me one thing, kid, why you join up with our friend here? Really.”

“Caps, getting out of Goodneighbor, boredom, whatever.” MacCready hopes that one of those answers satisfies Valentine. That it'll just stop trying to probe him. MacCready is a merc, sort of. That should be reason enough.

Valentine tilts his head to one side. The movement is silent. His eyes don't move though, staying rooted in place, focused on MacCready’s face.

“It's rude to stare, you bucket of bolts” MacCready doesn't look away because that would show weakness. He's not going to get all weird about a synth that hasn't tried to hurt him. Valentine is harmless. He must be.

“Apologies,” Valentine straightens his spine. “Only, anyone with decent gray matter left in his skull would know Weiss is trouble the moment they laid eyes on him. You though, you signed right up.”

“For caps,” MacCready corrects, well aware they are within earshot of Weiss.

Over by the stairs, Weiss laughs at something Piper says.

“I'm sure, for caps.” Valentine smiles.

“You're here too,” MacCready argues. Valentine doesn't have time to respond.

“Okay boys,” Weiss practically slides across the floor, slick with dust. “Time to fight the law.”

“In terms the rest of us can understand, please.” Valentine shifts his attention immediately. MacCready is relieved, not having to look back into LED eyes.

“We’re heading out to Cambridge police station. Piper says lots of reports of activity. Lasers, heavier stuff. Let's roll.”

MacCready doesn't miss the way Weiss’ pupils constrict. He's taken another round of Mentats. There's nothing for MacCready to do about it, really, other than keeping quiet. Valentine must notice. Everyone must notice, how Weiss walks around, high as a kite, but like nothing is wrong. Even this errand to Cambridge, MacCready doesn't know what to make of it.

\--

By the time they're stocked and ready to head out, the sun is already starting to set. Weiss says they should move, they can sleep on the road. Valentine bluntly admonishes Weiss. While they just plunked down the caps for a hundred cells, that doesn't mean they need to blow shots on raiders or mutants or fairy-fucking-princesses before they ever reach Cambridge.

“Fine then,” Weiss thinks for a moment, “I guess we stay. But just until dawn. Then we move. Um, I guess, here,” Weiss turns his pack around and fishes through it for caps. “If I had known these things would be so fucking valuable in the future, I would have saved them as a kid, damn.” He pulls out a handful, shoving them at MacCready. “Go get a bed at the Dugout, I guess. Meet you at the gate. At. Dawn.”

“Where are you going?” MacCready asks, innocently enough. 

“I'll crash on Piper’s couch.”

MacCready can't imagine Weiss fitting on anyone’s couch. Probably a lie, though. He's almost certainly sleeping with her. MacCready just gets that vibe. 

Sticking the caps in his pocket, MacCready doesn't intend to spend them on something as frivolous as a bed. If he goes out to the wall, he can lean against it, catch a few hours of sleep. He's done it before when passing through. As long as he doesn't look like a vagrant, and he doesn't, no one will bother him out there.

“Well, guess you should follow me, then.” Valentine starts walking off, once Weiss has left, just expecting MacCready to follow him.

“What?” MacCready trots after Valentine, hands still in his pockets, rolling around his caps.

“You're not going to spend those caps on a bed. So I'm offering you mine. Good-hearted as I am.”

MacCready’s embarrassed for being so transparent. “I was going to go…”

“No,” Valentine, corrects, “you weren't.”

“Okay, fine, fine,” MacCready is exasperated. “You got me. Is being hard-up a crime now?”

Valentine snickers, “I'm a private eye, not Diamond City security. So relax. Just, don't take things that aren't yours and we’ll be good.”

MacCready chooses not to follow up Valentine’s instructions with a witty response, given his tendency to have….somewhat sticky fingers. “We’re good.”

Valentine’s office is easily located by glowing neon and painted signs, directing anyone who needs help to the alleys of Diamond City. The door is already unlocked and Valentine calls for, “Ellie? Hm, she must have already headed home.”

Taking off his jacket, Valentine leaves his hat on. The suit underneath is clean and intact, so MacCready can't see anymore of the synth frame than he could before. But without the high collar of Valentine’s coat, the damage to his neck is more apparent. Especially against the starched perfection of his shirt.

MacCready shucks his coat too, draping it over the chair Valentine must offer to potential clients. The office is just full of junk, typewriters, paper, notebooks, clipboards, old mugs. Not exactly what MacCready would expect from a synth, even with a personality as distinctive as Valentine’s.

“Bed’s upstairs. There’s a bathroom just on your right. Small, but the water is as good as you can expect. Up to you if you use it or not.” Valentine sits in his chair, back ramrod straight and his eyes bright. “Let me know if you need anything. But have some class and don't poke around too much, alright, kid?”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks.” MacCready means it. He doesn't know if he's supposed to make more conversation. “Ah, do you not sleep at all?”

“Can, have, don't need to though. As you can probably surmise, I'm not quite as bound to the needs of the flesh as some of the third gens.”

“Third gens?” MacCready asks. Maybe he's starting to wear out his welcome, though.

“You know, the ones indistinguishable from humans? Walk like humans, talk like humans, eat and shit like humans. Far as I can tell, I might be a prototype for them. But, obviously, with this mug I can't pass for a fleshie like you.”

“You don't know for sure, what you are?” Now, he's definitely asked too many questions. 

“Wish I did know, kid.”

MacCready excuses himself to bed, thanking Valentine again. Should have thanked him for answering stupid questions instead of asking them.


	3. The view from the sidelines of yet another impending explosion

Somewhere, in the recesses of Valentine’s memories (the flesh ones, that preceded this metal frame) stirs the muscle memory associated with chain smoking. But this body (the metal and circuit one, that Valentine sometimes finds foreign himself) can't get addicted to nicotine. 

Valentine keeps a pack of preserved cigarettes in the breast pocket of his trench at all times.

Upstairs, MacCready is still sleeping. Twenty-two minutes, eighteen seconds until dawn. 

Valentine gets out of his chair to grab his coat, fishing into the pocket for cigarettes he won't smoke. At least not this time. Leaning with his ass against his desk, he rolls one stick between metal digits on the hand that's bare, watching as the paper lightly tears under his ministrations. He's too many sharp edges, but with the need to touch. Talk about a rock and a hard place.

He doesn't know about MacCready. But he knows about himself, Weiss, and that bastard Kellogg. If Weiss wants, no, needs, to track that psychopath, they need to bring another gun. A good one. The cop’s instincts rattling around in Valentine’s solid state storage, hopping over to his processors, can get him to aim a gun alright. And the limbs some Institute scientist must have slaved over, only to junk later, mean that he’ll never have shaking hands. But they need something, someone else. And not just because Weiss, the charismatic bastard, is too high half the time to keep his body from vibrating into a trillion pieces.

So, hiring a merc isn't Weiss’ worst idea, but it's also far from his best. But why Weiss had to pick the most malnourished looking scrap from the back of Goodneighbor, well, Valentine just doesn't have words for that. MacCready’s far too thin. Valentine can tell even through the layers of clothes he piles on. The clothes are enough of a clue that he hails from warmer climes. His aim is good, but a little unorthodox. Lacks formal training, learned by necessity. Not unusual. As far as Valentine can tell, MacCready isn't a user. That's unusual. Most mercs either go in with a habit, or develop one to make the days pass.

And MacCready saves. Most mercs, hand them fifty caps like Weiss did, and maybe they don't spend them on a bed. But they sure as hell spend them. MacCready has enough to eat, get a little drunk down at the noodle shack, but he isn't going to. Hell, Valentine hasn't seen him eat since they left the Raider camp last night, other than that stick of gum Weiss offered him. So MacCready is saving for something, something more important than getting fucked up or filling his stomach, or putting his cock in a warm body. Valentine intends to figure out what's so damn important.

Fifteen minutes, ten seconds to dawn and Valentine figures it's about time to wake the kid up. But once he pushes away from the desk, shoving his cigarette pack back into his breast pocket, he can already hear MacCready stirring upstairs. The springs in the mattress creak when he stands.

Valentine throws on his coat and waits for MacCready to come down. He almost wishes he had something to feed the kid, but anything in the office is Ellie’s and she’d throw a punch for sure if anything came up missing. So Valentine just waits on MacCready.

When he stumbles down the stairs, he's only half dressed, his shirts, plural, slung over one arm and his cap tucked under his armpit. He's not quite as emaciated as Valentine predicted, but close. His arms have some muscle definition, probably from lugging around that heavy sniper rifle. But he still looks like he could use a good meal or ten from the way his ribs show.

“Oh,” MacCready’s eyes are still a little bleary. “Just let me wash up, then we can go.”

“Your funeral if you're late. After Weiss is done with you they won't be able to find all the pieces.” Valentine smirks. He's only half joking. Never met a more punctual chem addict. Then again, he's never personally seen Weiss take anything but Mentats.

MacCready’s eyes get a little wide before he darts into the bathroom. The water only runs for about thirty seconds, MacCready obviously taking the warning about time to heart. When he emerges, he's thrown on his shirts, but still holds his cap in his hands. The front of his hair is wet, droplets of water clinging to the strands. 

Valentine hands MacCready his coat. Before they are out the door, MacCready pops his collar high and puts his hat on. He doesn't want to be recognized in Diamond City. Valentine decides not to ask about it, for now.

They walk out of the back streets together, Valentine’s longer legs setting the pace. MacCready doesn't complain, probably still thinking about what Weiss’ll do if they’re late. They won't be, though. They’ll arrive two minutes and sixteen second before dawn. Weiss will probably be waiting for them, though. He is.

“Let's get out of here before someone loses their cat and we’re sent on an urgent retrieval mission.” Weiss’ hand twitches inside his pocket. He hasn't dosed yet. He won't do it in front of Piper.

“Lead the way,” Valentine offers.

The trip to Cambridge is less eventful than it should be. Though sleeping on the road is never in their best interests, maybe Weiss was right and they would have had a better chance to encounter some hostiles had they walked through the night. Though, if Weiss is set on making it all the way to the police station, they may need to save their cells. Valentine knows this trip is only somewhat about investigating the laser fire. It's mostly about appraising MacCready.

They’re not tracking Kellogg with a freshly hired merc, that's for damn sure. Important to know that MacCready is the right type. Either Weiss’ caps and charm will keep MacCready on track, or their mission will pull at the kid’s heartstrings. Valentine would put his caps down on the former, but the later would be safer. He doesn't know, maybe Weiss picked right with MacCready. No way of telling, yet.

The one thing Valentine is sure of is that MacCready can shoot fine. He’ll do in that regard. With two raiders up ahead, ones Weiss can't even see (but Valentine can), MacCready pulls Weiss behind a rusty hunk of old car and shushes him. Doesn't bother with the same warning to Valentine.

“Watch my tactical support,” MacCready smiles. He must be settling in. 

Using the car as a base, he gets his rifle into position, lining up his shot on one of the unsuspecting raiders. “You can run in after I take the first one down. We’ll still have the advantage.” On the last syllable, the “age,” MacCready pulls the trigger. Hits the raider in the throat. What a killshot.

Weiss jumps up, slapping MacCready on the back, shouting “Good work!” before pulling his pistol and running. With only one raider to take out, he doesn't bother with a stealthboy. He just gets in close and fires seven shots into the guy’s skull. Wasted two rounds on that, guy was dead at five. Valentine doesn't have to do anything. They did good.

“I can't imagine why you were ever kicked out of the military, Weiss.” Now MacCready is honest-to-God beaming. It suits his face better than the sad-sack terse way he normally holds his mouth.

“Your imagination isn't wild enough, not by a long shot.”

They continue on down the road.

\--

Cambridge turns out to be an unmitigated disaster. 

The worst part is, Weiss doesn't even realize it. Oh, they cut through the oncoming waves of supermutants, no problem. MacCready aiming for the throat does wonders. Right through the spinal column. The ones that stagger in closer, well, Valentine gets most of those with the rifle. When one claws almost all the way up to the steps of the station, Weiss unleashes laser beams so fast, Valentine almost can't keep up, almost.

Through it all, with a minigun as big as MacCready, is “Paladin Danse.” Paladin Danse is the disaster.

And Weiss doesn't realize it.

But Valentine does, because he's seen that wide-eyed look of utter, complete infatuation before. In the eyes of ingenues and dapper boys who think they’re going to beat the odds. Gosh darn it, those kids are going to make it! But they never do. They crackle and sparkle, flaming out in the end like fireworks on a cloudy night. All they want is a clear view.

Weiss talks to Paladin Danse with his hands stuck in the back pockets of his pants, puffing out his chest and smiling at every statement. In that hulking power armor, Danse looks like he might be as tall as Weiss, certainly a good deal broader. Danse doesn't look at Weiss the same way, with explosions in the sky of his eyes, so maybe there's hope for them yet.

Valentine’s fingers itch more than ever for a cigarette. He reaches for his breast pocket.

“I'd say those things will kill you,” MacCready comments from the floor, his back against one of the intact walls of the station and legs out straight in front of him. “But for you...let me guess...gunks up your screws?”

“Hah hah, very funny, wise ass. Come up with that one on your own?” Banter is good. Opens MacCready up a little. So, it's a positive sign that he's starting to joke. Maybe something is salvageable from this trip. 

Valentine sets to work pulling out a cigarette, putting it between his lips, pulling it away, putting it back into the pack. He repeats this, over and over while Weiss talks to the Paladin. If MacCready thinks it's weird, he doesn't mention anything about it.

“But you’ll come with us, right?” Weiss cocks his hip to one side, edging in on Danse, drawing their bodies closer together. It's only been a couple of weeks, but Valentine has already read the vaultie, cover to cover. He's not above flirting to get his way, but this isn't just about Weiss getting his way. This is so Danse with think about having his way with Weiss. “You’ll want to see me work.” Weiss brushes at his forehead, but there’s no hair in his eyes to move, all of it tied back in his ponytail.

“Of course.” Danse is utterly oblivious. God help them, he stays that way.

Four of them head out together. Weiss, Valentine, MacCready, Danse. They're all mismatched. A pre-war relic, a synth, a merc, and a suit of power armor. That's the start of a joke, right there. They’re on a mission to clear some nearby ghouls out of a subway station. Always with the ghouls and the stations. Valentine’s memories didn't know what to do with ghouls the first time he saw them. No, he knew, he wanted to puke. But the synth body wouldn't let him. It was the same feeling the first time Valentine looked in a mirror and realized he wasn't who he thought he was. Who the memories told him he should be.

The station is wrecked, they're always wrecked, with busted turnstiles and full of garbage. Weiss crashes through dilapidated boxes as loudly as he can manage. But there's a method to his chaos. He makes a lot of noise, then stops. Checking his pipboy, he whispers, “Ten.”

Valentine checks his rounds. He's got plenty. Just has to wait for Weiss to give the go ahead.

“MacCready, tactics?” Weiss asks like a taunt. 

MacCready grunts, “Do you want them bunched or spread?”

“Spread, pretty please.” Weiss’ voice is all sugar. Sounds obscene, coming from a guy pushing thirty-five and well over 6’3”.

“On the first headshot then. Keep behind me until then.”

Weiss is already strapping a stealthboy to his left wrist. He wears the pipboy on his right, so there’s no space there.

Quietly, well, as quietly as they can manage with Danse alongside them, the group squeezes through the turnstiles and down to the platform. Valentine has to grab the turnstile to keep it from smacking against the metal of Danse’s suit like a gong.

MacCready creeps ahead. There's nowhere for him to get a height advantage, not yet. But Valentine would put money on him getting on top of a metro car once the shooting starts. He draws his gun, aims.

Valentine’s memory flashes to the real Valentine. The same set up. A specialist hired by the department. There's nothing else there. Just a blank. Instead he sees this morning, how MacCready’s ribs show when he breathes in.

MacCready breathes in, firing on the exhale.

Weiss runs towards the next closest ghoul that stirs, and disappears.

Next to MacCready and Weiss, Danse’s cumbersomeness is even more apparent. And it's not even the metal shell. His aim isn't as good, neither are his instincts. He just opens fire arbitrarily into the oncoming pack of ghouls, seemingly oblivious that somewhere inside the melee is his newest ‘initiate.’ 

Valentine fires around the shimmers that give clues to Weiss’ position. He pops in and out of stealth as he's knocked around in the clumping ghouls. He should have checked how many stimpaks they have ready. Too late now. Hard to miss how the fire from Danse nicks across Weiss’ armor. Danse doesn't know how to fight like this.

MacCready’s on top of the nearest car already. Valentine feels a little smug that he predicted correctly. There's no risk of the merc hitting Weiss, his shots are too carefully placed. Also, there would be no blaming his headshot on one of the others. He's the only one packing lead bullets.

The last ghoul goes down, Weiss emerges a sticky mess in the center of bodies. His heart is racing so fast Valentine swears he can hear it. He's trying to show off.

“Fuck, oh, fuck me, hah, HAH!” Weiss exclaims.

On top of the car, MacCready lowers his weapon. They're in the clear, at least as far as the ghouls are concerned. But he doesn't climb down yet. Weiss practically runs up to Danse, stopping himself short from throwing himself at the man. For Christ’s sake.

“Not bad, eh?”

“I've...never seen field tactics like that before. You said you were military?”

Weiss gets all sheepish. “For a time.”

What a fucking liar.

“Unconventional, but I suppose I won't argue with results. In the future, perhaps I should make some tactical suggestions before engaging targets,” Danse offers.

“Hey!” MacCready shouts from the top of the metro car. His sniper rifle is swung around his back, the strap laying flat against his chest. “You got a problem with my plan, you toaster?”

When Danse turns his head, there's an unmistakable hum to his armor. “I could hardly call that a ‘plan,’ mercenary.”

“I'd like to see you do better. The way Weiss just barrels in, only so much planning that can account for.” When MacCready hops down, it's from a distance and onto uneven ground. Most men would stumble, hurt themselves in the process. MacCready manages it easily.

“Then he stops ‘barreling in.’ Learns discipline.”

Valentine snorts. Like that's about to happen. “Good luck with that one. I wish you all the best in your fruitless endeavor.”

“Synth, no one asked for your appraisal,” Danse cuts to the quick. Having him around is going to be an utter joy.

“Trust me, or not, that I've got a pretty good handle on the situation here. MacCready is probably right.” Valentine leans against the wall of the tunnel, his boots soaking through with the low pooled water. How the humans can stand it, he can't figure. There are much nicer places to have this argument. Over some whiskey and cigarettes, maybe. He gets out his pack.

“I'm definitely right,” MacCready seethes. He's invested in demonstrating his usefulness. Probably scared of watching his meal ticket(s, because Valentine knows now that he's as much part of this equation as Weiss is. He did let the kid spend the night) trade him in for this hardened soldier. One with better access to equipment and manpower, things MacCready could never provide. Valentine also knows which one of the two men he would recommend to Weiss, if he asks.

Weiss stomps out of the water and back onto the drier part of the platform. “I'm right here, you know. Unless you've forgotten. And I don't see why we can't all get along.” His hands are in his back pockets again. “Let's head back up to the station. We’re clear here, and I could use some fresh socks.” He doesn't wait for acknowledgment before heading back up the stairs.


	4. tip your server/at the tipping point

They don't spend the night at Cambridge, which is a relief. And Paladin Danse doesn't come with them, even better.

Though before they leave, Weiss spends almost two hours sitting on top an intact desk while Danse stands in front of him. They talk in low voices. Weiss speaks rapidly, sometimes in short, jerky sentences, sometimes in rambling, roundabout ways. In both cases, Danse says very little, but he nods a lot. Several times Weiss reaches out to touch Danse’s arm. He doesn't take off his armor. Maybe so that they’re even, Weiss doesn't clean the ghoul bits off of his chest plate. 

Valentine eavesdrops, keeping his auditory sensors tuned to their conversation. MacCready tosses him a lighter when he catches Valentine fiddling with his cigarette pack. Lighting one up, Valentine takes a massive drag. He can't feel the effects of the nicotine, but something about the smoke volume is comforting.

Weiss talks with Danse about the world before the war in broad strokes, he tells Danse about his missing son, he doesn't mention Nate.

Valentine can't blame him. In his office, weeks ago, when Weiss told him the same tales, Weiss’d broken down, in a quiet sort of way, at the mention of his husband.

When he's not trying to touch Danse, Weiss turns the ring on his finger.

While he smokes, Valentine can't help but look at his own hand, naked fingers, the ‘flesh’ ripped off. Maybe it got repurposed on another synth. Maybe it got left in that dumpster when he was too disoriented to know to look for it, when he woke up with a man’s memories and a synth’s body. Memories of a girl other-Valentine couldn't save. A girl who was so sweet and so good as to make him half-desperate to wear a ring. Forever.

Glancing over to MacCready, sitting against the wall, half dozing, his legs laid out in front of him, Valentine sees no ring. He adds that information chunk to the data pool. Variables shift between categories, knowns and unknowns. Mounting predictions. Weiss is counting on Valentine to get this right.

MacCready looks about as relieved as Valentine feels when the party leaves Danse behind.

“He has other obligations,” Weiss shrugs. “I told him we’d be back.”

Valentine wishes Weiss would stop making promises he can't possibly keep.

Together, the three of them clear out eight supermutants from a little rundown farmstead on their way out of the city and towards Sanctuary. Its occupants are long gone. Well, more accurately, it's occupants are folded up into wet meat-bags, tangled and broken by the mutants. If they’re going to sleep here, the bodies have to go.

MacCready and Weiss steel themselves. Valentine doesn't let it show that the bloody sacks make the memory of his stomach churn. They drag the bags downstairs, with varying degrees of success. They make wet noises against the floorboards as they slide, smearing red behind.

Valentine wonders if Weiss ever questions the passage of time. Six hours earlier, and maybe they could have saved these people. But, then again, Weiss is two hundred years late to the world.

“I'd better keep watch, in case their friends decide to crash our little party.” Valentine taps off ash onto the floor. 

Weiss has been walking around with an ashtray in one hand. Force of habit, from a time floors used to be clean. In the kitchen, MacCready manages to rig the stove with a quarter-full propane tank and honest-to-God the burners start running. Valentine swears MacCready makes enough food for six people, instead of two. Because there's so much mutant hound chops leftover, Valentine stabs a few bites for himself. The texture between his teeth is nice, even if he can't taste it.

“Where does it...go, though?” MacCready asks.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I guess not.”

The two men sleep upstairs while Valentine lays down, reading old magazines on the couch. He turns his auditory sensors back up all the way, so they're not particularly at risk for being surprised. When the end of a surprisingly interesting article about the Annexation of Canada is burnt out, he gets frustrated and tosses the magazine aside.

Upstairs, MacCready wakes up. It's still hours before sunrise.

Stumbling down the stairs, he's mostly dressed, missing his boots, hat, and coat. So it's not that he's trying to make a break for it. “I was hoping you'd be up.”

“One of the necessities of keeping watch, kid.” He dials back his hearing for the conversation. MacCready would be obnoxiously loud otherwise, even though his voice is quiet. Valentine sits up on the couch, but keeps his feet planted on the cushions, his back against the armrest. Without invitation, MacCready sits in the space opened up.

MacCready leans forward, elbows on knees. “What is going on here?”

“We’re heading north to investigate…”

“No don't mess with me. What is going on?” MacCready doesn't waver. “I get nothing, but Weiss spills his whole soul to that Brotherhood idiot? What does he know?” MacCready hisses, “what does a guy who has been a block of ice this whole time know about the Brotherhood? Huh? Why trust Danse? Why trust them?”

That MacCready is from the Capital, Valentine has already surmised. The Brotherhood have run thick there for the last twenty or so years, since MacCready was a small child, no doubt. Valentine isn't inclined to trust them either, not with the anti-synth sentiment Danse clearly displays. Up here, in the Commonwealth, they're a bit of an unknown quantity. But what Valentine has seen so far, he doesn't like.

“Why do you not trust them?”

“They spout a bunch of bul-stuff. About restoring the world, about protecting people. But they don't give a- they don't care. How long have they strutted around the Capital? Huh? And it's no better than up here.” MacCready pulls at his hair. “There was this guy, I was just a stupid kid then. He came to visit...my family. He wasn't Brotherhood, but he worked for them, you know? He seemed so old then, but I guess I was just young. Later, I found out they made him take this massive radiation dose. He just...shouldered the whole thing, like a champ. And what did the Brotherhood do? Take credit for providing the Capital with clean water. Wrote the history where they were the heroes.” MacCready takes a deep breath. “They don't deserve an ounce of my respect. Of anybody’s.”

Valentine watches in the darkness as MacCready’s shoulders drop with exertion. He's eaten up all his energy speaking, trying to make himself heard. Short quips, sarcastic remarks, those MacCready can handle just fine. But this sort of outpouring of frustration? Takes a lot out of a guy. 

Getting up, Valentine heads for the kitchen. He pokes around the shelves until he finds a can of pork ‘n beans. The can is un-dented. Valentine warms up the beans over the stove while MacCready watches him, confused. He cooks the beans until they simmer, bubbling up against the sides of the pot. Dumping them into a chipped, but largely clean bowl, Valentine grabs a fork and heads back to the couch. He practically shoves the bowl into MacCready’s lap before flopping back down on his half of the couch. It was all his couch before, but under the circumstances, he doesn't mind sharing.

MacCready doesn't question the food, he just eats it while Valentine waits, trying to get as comfortable as he can, given the shared space. His socked feet are just centimeters from MacCready’s ass, his back leaning against the armrest of the couch. “I have more questions for you sometime, kid. But I think that's enough for now.”

MacCready wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why don't you tell me something instead,” he shoves in another forkful. “Like what we’re doing.”

“I'm evaluating you.”

The fork scratches against the bowl like a record. “What?” There's still food in MacCready’s mouth.

“What Weiss wants to do, what I'm helping him with. There’s sensitive information. We agreed to hire a merc for an extra gun. Weiss has some friends, but it's better they don't get mixed up in this. Anyway, I'm going to decide if you're our man.”

“Well excuse me if I don't like the thought of being evaluated by a machine.” MacCready practically throws his bowl against the coffee table. But he doesn't storm out.

“Doesn't matter if you like it or not, kid.” Leaning over the side of the couch, Valentine grabs his coat, starts smoking with MacCready’s lighter. “That's the reality of the situation.”

“I know it has to do with Weiss’ son. Shaun, right?” MacCready’s voice turns somber. “It can't be all that sensitive if he was giving Danse the play-by-play.”

Valentine winces. “Danse was not part of the plan. And trust me, there is more to this than Weiss’ son.”

“You've seen me shoot now. Seen my tactics. Do I pass your test? Or do you need more data points or something?” 

“Your competence with a gun isn't what I'm evaluating.”

MacCready lets his head rest against the back of the couch. His eyes start to drift closed. Even in the darkness, Valentine can see how blue they are. The sky can be that blue, even now, in this world of ruin.

“I want to help. Even if there is more. Weiss’ son is enough of a reason.”

Valentine has plenty more questions, but MacCready falls back asleep, sitting up on the couch. Valentine turns his aural sensors back up.

\--

Weiss wakes MacCready up by pouncing on top of him, trying to reach under his layers of shirts and tickle. Like they're charming schoolboys in some old-world novel where affections are free and Weiss isn't paying MacCready for his stunning ability to kill things. Valentine could have warned MacCready what was about to hit him, but this outcome is funnier.

MacCready doesn't really know how to fight with his hands. Just sort of flails like a child. Even if he did know, Weiss has over six inches and seventy pounds on him. Doesn't even stand a chance. It is pretty funny, watching MacCready trying to fight off the much larger vaultie, starting to spit curses and then catching himself abruptly. All his ‘shits’ becoming ‘shoots’ and ‘fucks’ just trailing off into oblivion.

“What is up with that, anyway?” Weiss has MacCready pinned to the couch, both of MacCready’s wrists wrapped in Weiss’ larger hand. “With you not cussing?”

“Made a promise, to my wife. Cursed all the time as a kid. At everyone. She hated it, just hated it. So, I tried to be better, for our son.” 

Valentine watches as Weiss’ hand loosens around MacCready’s wrists. Pulling them away, MacCready rubs them where the circulation stops, blood flowing back into his hands. His knuckles are still white, though. All bony digits.

“Where are they now?” Weiss reaches behind him to get his smokes out of his back pocket, forgetting that he's not wearing any pants, just boxers. Valentine tosses him his pack. 

MacCready stops rubbing his wrists, leaning forward towards the coffee table. He grabs the bowl from last night, heading to the sink like he's going to wash it. But there's no water in the taps. “Back in the Capital. Safe.”

“Not safe for them here?” Weiss flops down on the couch where MacCready vacated his seat, his cigarette in one hand and an ashtray in the other. 

“No.” MacCready says. He goes through each cabinet. Valentine knows the only option here is more pork ‘n beans. Realizing that himself, MacCready scrapes at the used pot. There isn't another one of those either.

Weiss manages to find his pants, his gun, and his tin of mentats by the time MacCready is finished cooking. Valentine smokes silently on the couch, processing this new information about MacCready. He drags the cigarette all the way down to the filter. Doesn't have to worry about burning his fingers.

MacCready’s married, but doesn't wear a ring. That's not entirely uncommon. Weiss is a bit of an exception, and he's a widower. Still in mourning, whether he realizes it or not. Valentine spreads his arms over the backrest of the couch, blowing smoke up towards the second floor. There's a hole that goes clear to the sky.

They’re losing minutes while they wait to eat. No one seems bothered. This is part of the process. Even Weiss can't run twenty-four/seven. Not enough drugs in the world for that. Valentine doesn't want to think of the future, how it always goes. Weiss was an addict before he was frozen. Has all the signs of it. But there's harder shit now. More than Weiss in his suburban home with his new Mr. Handy and rugged soldier-husband could've imagined. All Valentine can do is try and exert a good influence. Keep him off the Jet and the Psycho and whatever else chemists are dreaming up these days.

MacCready tells them to get their own bowls. He's not their mothers. Could have fooled Valentine, that's for sure. He's made three bowls, even though they technically only need two. Like its slipped his mind that Valentine’s a synth. Valentine’s noticed that too.

Sometimes MacCready thinks of him as a synth, sometimes he's just a man. Like he can't make up his mind how to feel. Most people get ten minutes in the Commonwealth and pick a side. For us or against us. ‘Us’ being some nebulous category to which Valentine almost belongs. Because he can't pass. But sometimes, when he's not looking directly at Valentine, MacCready forgets.

“Weiss,” Valentine says, his full bowl still in his hands. In the left, he can still feel something like warmth.

“Hm?” Weiss has a mouthful of beans. He chokes them down quickly. “Yeah?”

“I think you should tell MacCready what he needs to know.”

Weiss smiles, “should I, now?”


	5. Step one is to make a plan and if step two is a long time coming then you have no one to blame but yourself

Weiss starts at the beginning, maybe further back than strictly necessary. But MacCready has already caught on that Weiss is the sort of guy who likes to hear himself talk. And, boy, can he talk. He almost goes all the way back to when he was eighteen, in 2061, and he decided to join the army, to his parents’ horror. Valentine barks that's too much, MacCready doesn't need to know all that.

So Weiss skips ahead, and it practically feels like he's in 2077, with the way he describes the piece of bliss Sanctuary was supposed to be, talking with his hands. All picket fences and waves of brightly blooming flowers. How Nate was discharged, without the “dishonorable” in front, like Weiss had been some fifteen years prior.

“He was so fucking happy about the baby, about Shaun.” He lights up another cigarette.

“Weren't you happy too?” 

Valentine gives MacCready a glare that can only mean, ‘you shouldn't have asked.’

“Yeah, of course,” Weiss hesitates. “I was excited. But Nate. Nate’s the one who was ready to give everything else up. He left the army, he was going to stay home full time. He wanted to be a father so bad, God.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Weiss continues on, about how they got iced in the vault, only to thaw later. How he woke to Nate screaming, Shaun in his arms. Someone in a white suit pulling at the baby. Nate disoriented and Weiss pounding on the glass that kept him caged. Couldn't break through, no matter how hard he fought.

“And this fucker, scar across his face, like this,” Weiss draws his finger across his skull. From the pattern of it, MacCready already knows.

“Kellogg.”

“You know him?”

“Everyone does. First thing they teach you when you start taking caps for combat is who not to fuck with.” MacCready leaves the Gunners out of it, for now.

“Well, Kellogg murders Nate. Shoots him dead. BANG! Like cattle. And all I can think is, it should have been me. I should have held Shaun when we went into the vault. Then I'd be dead, and Nate would be here.”

MacCready waits to say anything, his heart keeps pounding in his chest, like it's trying to break out, fly away, find somewhere, anywhere in the world that is safe for children. He wonders if Valentine can pick up on his anxiety, what with the way his eyes move. “That wouldn't be any better.”

“Yeah, yeah it fucking would be,” Weiss’ face flushes, his skin turning peachy-red at his cheeks. “I spent Goddamn weeks trying to remember how to shoot straight. Trying to find enough fucking mentats that the withdrawal would stop. Used to be able to get them from the pharmacy, you know? Bought them when I would pick up formula for the baby.” Weiss’ eyes get real unfocused, “Nate would've hit the ground running. Sprinting. He'd have Kellogg’s head on a fucking pike already. No bullshit. It should have been me who died that day.”

“Well,” MacCready stands up, offering his hand out to Weiss. “We’re the ones here now. Let's get your son.”

Weiss accepts his hand, folding MacCready into a hug once he's to his feet. Kissing the side of MacCready’s head, he mutters. “Thank you,” but they haven't done anything yet.

\--

Even with it decided that MacCready will accompany Weiss and Valentine to track Kellogg, they still have to continue to on Sanctuary. Something about getting their “tracker.” Weiss talks the whole way, about nothing in particular, though it's threaded through with his exploits since leaving the vault. He doesn't talk about the past-past, really at all. What it was like before the bombs fell. That's clearly a sore subject. Or maybe it just hurts too much. In either case, it doesn't bother MacCready. He's curious, sure, how people lived when the wreckage that lines the streets were intact homes, pristine, beautiful. 

MacCready is curious, maybe, about a world where children were free, food was plentiful, and kindness didn't run on caps.

He knows, in an abstract way, that Weiss’ world couldn't be everything that he dreams. Because it was the same world that led to this one. One full of hatred and anger. Enough anger that nations went to war, wrecked the world for their children, their children’s children. And so on.

With his hands tied by circumstance, MacCready marches ahead. Weiss talks about the first time he saw a supermutant, how he was terrified, but excited too. The horrors of science brought to life, but he sort of thinks they're beautiful too. Like the essence of man, distilled down to his most basic features. “What if we all look like that? Under everything else.”

“MacCready would only be about a third a mutant. Hell, maybe he'd reach full size human, given the chance.” Valentine has this habit of smoking his cigarettes all the way down to the filter. MacCready is sure that he'd take them all the way down to his naked metal bones if he could. When MacCready smoked, he could never get that far. He was afraid of burning himself. Weiss frequently tosses away his stick half-used.

“Have you looked in a mirror lately, Valentine? I'm not sure you should be throwing stones about people’s looks. Does your neck get drafty?” MacCready counters.

“I don't believe I said a damn thing disparaging your appearance,” Valentine smiles around his cigarette.

With Sanctuary on the horizon, a big, black and brown dog runs out of the settlement, charging straight towards Weiss. MacCready knows dogs well enough to recognize the gait as non-hostile. This is Weiss’ mutt for sure. Though the dog looks like it's going to barrel straight through Weiss and come out the other side, when Weiss holds out his hand, the dog stops dead in his tracks, waiting. Weiss puts his hand back down, and the dog launches himself into Weiss’ arms. Weiss just laughs, “Good Dogmeat, good boy!”

“You named your dog, ‘Dogmeat?’” MacCready knows Weiss is a different sort of guy, but come on.

Weiss lifts the dog into his arms. Dogmeat is probably pushing seventy pounds, but it clearly doesn't bother Weiss any. He manages to hold him like a baby, Dogmeat licking the side of his face near constantly. “Sure, I mean, why not?”

“You named your dog, Dogmeat.” MacCready repeats like the weirdness of the name should be obvious. It is obvious. Nate must have named Shaun, MacCready decides. Clearly Weiss is not to be trusted with such matters.

“I know! Come on, let's go say hi to Preston.”

Thankfully, Weiss doesn't insist on carrying Dogmeat the rest of the way to the settlement, putting him back down on his four paws and letting him trot at his side. The turrets guarding Sanctuary recognize them as friendly and let them pass without incident.

The town is mostly still in ruins, though a group of settlers work together to clear rubble from one of the foundations. A man in overalls directs them occasionally, but mostly he sifts through the debris as the others pull out old, broken furniture and shattered drywall remnants, looking for anything that can be salvaged and reused. Weiss yells “Struges!” at the man in overalls and waves. He gets only a weak wave back in return. 

Weiss frowns, mutters something under his breath, and continues on. 

“Preston! Gimme a clue man! Where are you?” Weiss shouts

“Over here!” Comes a call from down the street.

They enter a house that at least still has four walls, but no windows, and the roof it full of holes, part of it collapsed into the living room. Preston is a tall man, almost as big as Weiss, heavily armed, but with a wide, open smile, wrinkles only just starting to form at the corners of his eyes. 

He shakes Weiss’ hand, then apologizes for it being dirty. “Sturges has me trying to salvage electrical components, though I'm not really the man for the job,” he wrinkles his nose. “Gotta do what needs to be done, though.”

“Course,” Weiss offers him a cigarette from his pack. Preston accepts it. “We won't be staying. Gotta get back to Diamond City, now that we got the mutt.”

Preston nods. “Piper’s message said as much. That you've got ideas about how to track Kellogg?”

Valentine intervenes. “Dogs make damn fine trackers. I got a feeling this’ll work. Better than my nose ever will. Damaged that component.” Valentine taps the side of his nose.

“Of course.” Preston turns to look at MacCready for the first time. “Hello, I don't think we’ve been introduced. I'm Preston Garvey, of the Minutemen.” He holds out his hand.

MacCready takes it. If Garvey is a friend of Weiss, MacCready should probably act friendly too. “Robert Joseph MacCready.”

“Fuck,” Weiss interrupts, “here I thought you didn't have another name. Let alone two more. That you were just one of those guys with only one name. Mononym.”

MacCready rolls his eyes. “Just keep operating under the assumption I don’t have a first name, then. If it makes you feel better.”

“Maybe I will, then.” Weiss turns back to Garvey, “Just wanted to check in, see if you needed anything here.”

Garvey and Weiss exchange notes about scrap Sturges says he needs and can't find at Sanctuary. Weiss taps the list into his pipboy with long fingers. MacCready doesn't like how the house feels like it's closing down on him. When he steps outside, Valentine comes with him. 

The sky is clear. Clear enough MacCready can get a good look at the crows. He's always baffled by what ended up wrecked, what survived. Crows are kind of like humans in that way. But he's never even seen a mutated crow. Seen plenty of mutated humans. Blocked out plenty more from his memories.

In the Capital, there were rumors out in the Wastes about Little Lamplight. The place for forgotten children. That's how most everyone ended up there. Children abandoned by their parents, lost little boys and girls. It wasn't until MacCready was mayor that he understood how they arrived. For every child who had become his friend, his compatriot, his lifeline, there was another. The mangled, broken, unwanted child. It wasn't until he was mayor that he had to collect the little bodies from the tunnels, so the younger children wouldn't find them. 

Lucy went with him. The first time, and all the times after. With his hands shaking, he dug a pit for the baby, still screaming. Oh...God. Lucy held it. She spoke to it, swaddled in her arms. She was nine, then. He had just turned ten.

“Cap for your thoughts?” Valentine has a lit cigarette in one hand. He stoops down, sit next to MacCready on the cracked front steps.

MacCready tries to force a smile. “Just thinking of home.” Were he to outright lie, Valentine is sure to call him on it. So instead he evades the whole truth. 

When Valentine breathes out smoke, MacCready tries to breathe some of it in from the ambient air. He could really use a cigarette. But he promised. He gave up the smoking, cursing, couldn't quite manage drinking, though. And he doesn't regret it for a moment. Was worth it all to see Lucy so happy. And when Duncan came, bright, happy, alive, perfect, it was like they had been rewarded for doing the best they could. For being true to each other.

“Home must not be happy.” Valentine observes.

“I miss my son, is all.” MacCready drums his fingers against his knee, trying to expel the energy he's built up. Valentine's knees stick out much further than his do. Valentine is a perfect 6’0” on the dot. Like all the synths before him, but not after. Now they come in lots of shapes and sizes. At least on the outside. MacCready doesn't know if under their flesh if they look like the parts he can see of Valentine. Probably not, or else it would be real easy to tell.

“And your girl?” He's probing. MacCready lets him. Gotta say it out loud, eventually.

MacCready shakes his head, “Miss her too, everyday, but it's my fault she's dead.”

Valentine doesn't offer condolences, just a cigarette. MacCready refuses it.


	6. Stand on top of the mountain and scream your silences

They start from Kellogg’s old house in Diamond City, searching through his belongings for something he would have put his dirty paws all over. Dogmeat sticks his wet nose into boxes and crates. Chewing on a teddy bear, Dogmeat yips and drops it when Weiss puts the cigar to his snout.

“What about this, boy? Can you get a trail?”

MacCready is wrapped in more layers than ever. Piper gave him an extra coat of hers to wear under his long duster. Valentine can see the extra bulk, puffing up his shoulders and chest, though MacCready clearly doesn't want the others to know that he actually wore the damn thing. He's got a sweater over top of it. That's good, though, that he wore it. They’ll be running after Dogmeat through the night, maybe longer. Valentine doesn't need to sleep. Weiss can dose his way through nights. But MacCready will need to rest, if the trail is long.

Dogmeat’s ears perk up. He paws at the door to be let out. 

“And away we go!” Weiss hits the door latch, letting Dogmeat run. 

He leads them out the front gates, out into the Fens. Good boy that he is, Dogmeat never gets too far out ahead of his master, trotting at a brisk pace that Weiss can keep up with easily. Valentine walks slower, in the hopes Weiss will slow down, so Dogmeat will slow down. The plan works, Weiss needing more than anything someone to chat with to fill the silences of traveling. He slows enough so that he can talk to Valentine.

“I hope this plan works. If not, what then?” They weave their way out of the city without incident. Behind them, MacCready keeps his sidearm drawn. A 10mm with a silencer. Smart, maybe, but not particularly powerful. Weiss’ hand is almost always on the grip of his gun as well.

Valentine chooses to smoke instead of mess with his rifle. “The dog will find him. I'm sure. Or at least lead us to someone who can find the bastard.” 

Several times along the trail they have to stop, find something more for Dogmeat to sniff at, pick up the trail again. More cigars, bloodied rags. They walk for a solid eight hours, heading ever westward. They chase the setting sun, but it beats them to the horizon line.

“We need to stop.” Valentine’s been watching both men in turn. It has been three hours since Weiss last dosed. MacCready’s pace behind them has slowed considerably over the last three-quarters of a mile. But the stubborn bastard won't admit that he's tired. Valentine has to intercede now. The sun is long gone; they've been traveling by Weiss’ pipboy light and a flashlight MacCready totes.

“Don't tell me your battery is drained,” MacCready forces a smile.

There are plenty of witty comebacks Valentine could manage, but he cuts the kid some slack. MacCready doesn't want to be thought of as weak. That's a death sentence as a mercenary. And he’s not weak, only those he’s traveling with have advantages he lacks.

“You two can barely fucking see where we’re going. And I'd rather not unintentionally wander into a supermutant camp. If it's all the same to you two.”

“But if we were to deliberately wander into a supermutant camp?” Weiss asks.

“I don't know you to be a man who sleeps on a mattress without a solid half-inch of filth on top, Weiss.”

“Awesome.” Weiss redirects his attention to his pipboy, spinning the dial and marking their current location before setting a new marker. “Signs of life over there.” He points just south.

In the end, it's not a supermutant camp, but a small settlement. Really just a shack with a couple of sad mutifruit planted out front. Blissfully, they appear to have found the one little refuge in the Commonwealth that hasn't had a loved one kidnaped, or a feral ghoul problem, or who can't manage enough water for themselves. 

But they only have one spare mattress, not two. 

“You take it,” MacCready insists to Weiss. “I can sleep sitting up just fine.” The two men squabble over who will take the bed. Valentine waits outside, burning down his last cigarette. He pulls as much smoke into his lungs as he can, forcing it back out through his nostrils.

MacCready emerges from the shack. Looks surprised to see Valentine there. “Sorry, just, your eyes.” 

“What about them?” Valentine flicks his filter into the dirt. With no paper left, there's little chance of it catching the weeds on fire.

“I almost forget, sometimes. Except for the eyes.” MacCready shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Sorry, that wasn't...polite.”

Valentine laughs it off, “Now you're trying to act polite?”

“Just, you know,” MacCready pulls his jacket tight across his chest, trying to keep the cold out. “I've never met a synth who I knew was a synth before. You know? Been thinking about it. A lot. While we were on the road.”

Valentine keeps quiet, it's what MacCready needs to keep talking.

“You and Weiss get along real well. You know? Like real friends. So sometimes, I forget you're a synth. Particularly from behind. When I can't see your eyes.”

“Yeah?” Valentine exhales a laugh, “prefer looking at my ass, eh?”

MacCready tisks the suggestion away. “Your personality though. That came from...somewhere else, right? Someone the Institute kidnapped?”

“Now that is an awfully personal question.”

“I've told you some pretty personal stuff too.” MacCready’s hands couldn't be pushed any further into his coat pockets. Valentine doesn't think much of what MacCready has admitted is particularly damning, but who is he to judge? Maybe the kid just doesn't open up to anyone. Piling his secrets up in layers. Would explain, a little, why he's taken to talking so much now, when he was all tight-lipped the first couple of days. He's still getting used to the sound of his own voice.

Valentine sighs, “my memories are from before the war. Blue skies, picket fences, and a precinct downtown. Then I wake up in the Commonwealth, crawling out of a dumpster in a junked up body that isn't mine. But I control it. All my memories, my personality? As old as Weiss’. So, yeah, maybe that's why we get along.”

MacCready doesn't bother to respond. He's dead on his feet anyway.

“So, no, the Institute didn't kidnap me. I went to the old C.I.T. by choice. Though now, I'm not sure this is quite how I expected things to shake out.”

“I, “ MacCready hesitates. “All I know is this world.”

“Do you like it?” Valentine knows it's a stupid question, but it's an open one, meant to lead MacCready on, to share without ripping the words right from his pristine throat. MacCready may only know this world, but he's come out a lot better than most. 

MacCready leans against the wall of the shack, it doesn't give too much under his weight. Even if he's going to be sleeping sitting up, he should do so inside. His feet slide out from under him, back scraping against the wall until his ass hits the floor. The maneuver is utterly immature, but it works.

“I've got no interest in other worlds. Just got to make this one work.”

In the end, after MacCready falls asleep, Valentine sits next to him. Shuffling internal power around best he can manage, he makes what's left of his skin as warm as possible. Hoping somehow MacCready can siphon it.

\--

The second day spins as quickly as the first, outward and outward to the edges of the Commonwealth. They haven't seen signs of a settlement for quite some time now, following along an old drainage ditch caked and clogged with decaying filth. The humans cover their noses with bandanas as they keep tabs on Dogmeat. Valentine just shuts off what’s left of his nose.

Making an effort to include MacCready in conversation, Valentine starts with a story about Diamond City, instead of the old world. About a dame dressed in blue who was looking for something all right, but it wasn't a missing person.

“So, here I am, my first assignment since starting the agency, formally, and it's a damn cat again. I thought putting down real roots would help the place take me seriously. But no, it was still pet patrol for old Valentine. Took them a long time to forget. Almost as long as it took me to realize I should be charging people for the service.”

“You were solving cases for free?” Weiss asks. “What a charitable guy!”

“Yeah, but believe me, once I set a finders fee, there was a lot less chasing cats up trees, that's for sure. Still some cat wrangling, though.”

MacCready reaches up to grab Valentine’s shoulder, keeping him from advancing. Valentine scuffs his shoes in the dirt. Up ahead, Weiss freezes, before running forward.

“Stop! Weiss! Fu-Stop!” MacCready lets go of Valentine and runs after Weiss instead. Valentine already knows what it is. He can smell the solder, the crackle of frayed wires still sparking. Must be like when humans smell fear, or taste blood in the air that is not their own. He knows why MacCready grabbed him first, and not the more impulsive Weiss.

Hitting Weiss from behind, low at the knees, MacCready manages to knock the much larger vaultie into the dirt. A cloud of dust kicks up around them. Dogmeat runs back at the sound of his master’s fall, but must know MacCready poses no threat. The mutt is only coming to investigate.

“What the fuck, MacCready?”

“It's an Assaultron, idiot.” MacCready spits from on top of Weiss’ back. “It'll roast you alive.”

“But look,” Weiss shifts around, rolling from his stomach to his back, until MacCready sits on his chest, one leg on either side of his ribs. Keeping one hand at MacCready’s hip, he twists his wrist so MacCready can see the pipboy screen. “It's not hostile.”

Dogmeat sticks his nose into MacCready’s side, obviously wanting him to get off from on top his master. Valentine wants him to get off too, or at least for Weiss to move his damn hand to a respectable position away from MacCready’s waistline. Jesus Christ.

“No, it's busted. I can see that. Can't you?”

Weiss doesn't answer the question. “So, then, no danger, right, Val?”

Valentine stands over them both. “Right.” He grabs the back of MacCready’s coat collar, hoisting him up off of Weiss so they can continue on. MacCready is too proud not to fight him, at least a little, so he makes a show of kicking at a chunk of broken up concrete once he's on his feet,

Together, they walk at a reasonable pace towards the assaultron. Next to Valentine, MacCready won't stop fiddling with his pistol, the strap to his sniper rifle, the lapels of his coat. He's all nervous movement and bubbling anxiety.

The lower half of the assaultron is crushed, exposed wires curling in on themselves and bleeding coolant. Sparks start dying out like old stars. Its eyes move erratically between the three men, unable to focus on anything for long. Assultrons never have the silicon coating, the fake, almost-skin of synths. And they aren't indistinguishable from flesh, like the gen 3s. There's none of that uncanny valley crap. But still, MacCready just won't leave himself well alone. Almost as bad as Weiss.

The unit sputters about betrayal and being left behind. That its systems are going dark. That it served as expected, fit all the parameters. It was useful, now it is not. It is approaching non-functionality. It knows it is dying. It says Kellogg’s name.

Weiss smashes the butt of his laser pistol into its head until the yellow “eye” in the center of its head goes black. It cracks, a hairline fracture that bursts open on the next hit.

“It's more humane,” Weiss says, pulling out his cigarette pack. He offers one to Valentine first, as if he needs the comfort. Weiss and Valentine wait to finish their cigarettes in the long shadow of the broken down unit. MacCready never stops moving.

By sunset, the remains of civilization start getting thicker again, the trees thinning out. Both Valentine and Weiss know this place. Fort Hagen. They have their memories to fall back on. Valentine grabs MacCready’s shoulder, keeping him from getting too close.

“I've got three more yards before the turrets see me,” MacCready sounds almost bored. The further they get from the assaultron, the less he fidgets. Weiss takes up the useless movement slack, loading and unloading his laser pistol, clicking the chamber open and shut.

But then Weiss stops idling too, pulling them all back another few yards, holding onto Dogmeat’s collar, though he's in no danger of running. “He's here. The bastard who took my son is here,” he seethes through his teeth.

“Yeah,” Valentine pulls his pack off his shoulder, starting to take out what they’ll need. “We should be ready for a firefight.” He starts taking stimpaks out of his pack and sticking them into his coat pocket where they’ll be more easily accessible. 

“So give me the yards I need.” MacCready has his rifle off his back, double checking that he's loaded. Of course he is. “And I'll let you know how we’ll proceed.”

Weiss is already strapping a stealthboy to his wrist.

“Hold on,” MacCready turns back from his position just at the edge of the turret’s range. Valentine can tell he's got the distance right. On the fucking dot. “How many of those you got, Weiss?”

“Four. Well, this one, plus three.” He holds up his arm. He's strapped in, but hasn't thrown the switch.

“Don't waste them out here.” MacCready puts his right eye to the scope, closing the left. “Valentine and I can get everything outside between the two of us.”

“Is that so, kid?” Valentine has his rifle ready.

“Synths. Once I blow the turret, one will go to investigate. The others will start running towards where the bullet came from.”

“So now you're an expert on synth behavior too? Maybe the Institute should look into hiring you.” Valentine means it in jest, “they could probably afford to feed you better.”

“Didn't need a manual to figure you out, Valentine,” MacCready smirks, but it's half-hearted. “Just need you to blast down the ones running towards us. Closest first. I'll work from the back. We meet somewhere in the middle.”

MacCready raises his rifle, aiming at the turret.

Valentine wonders what it is, exactly, that MacCready has figured out. He hopes they live long enough to have that conversation.

“Three, two, one-” MacCready pulls the trigger.


	7. The Kettle Whistling From the Other Side of Your Narrow Synapse

The hallways of the fort are too narrow to manage the rifle. MacCready mostly has to make due with his far less powerful pistol. It's a good pistol, quiet, heavily modded, but it still only uses 10mm rounds. A .44 would have been better, but he doesn't have the caps for that sort of gun. Or to keep it full of bullets.

Weiss and Valentine do most of the work threading through the halls. Downed synths provide them with an endless source of cells for their pistol and rifle. Every room they pass reeks of electricity and ash. MacCready wonders about Valentine. What it feels like to personally render synths that both are and are not like him non-functional. If Valentine feels the same range of emotions MacCready does as he watches humans take his .308s. In their throats, the center of their skulls, through their fleshy bodies and out the other side. Sometimes it's pride he feels, because this violence is a skill, one he's honed since he first picked up the gun. He was so young. Sometimes it's horror, because MacCready knows he smells of decay.

He told Lucy that he was a soldier. The older MacCready gets, the harder it is to believe that she died thinking that was the truth. For whom would he even fight? There isn't a banner left in this world that is just.

Even though Valentine and Weiss do most of the shooting, MacCready barks orders, where to stand, when to fire. When too many synths burst through a doorway, he shouts at Weiss to stealth. The vaultie doesn't have to be told twice, smashing the switch to send himself into shivering oblivion.

“You sure that is for the best, kid?” Valentine shouts over the racket. His metal fingers move with complete precision, loading in more cells without looking.

MacCready shouts back, “You agreed I was the man for the job!” Sliding behind a heavy overturned desk, MacCready shelters himself from incoming laser fire. Whichever bot was shooting at him goes down, probably Weiss, given the raucous laughter that follows.

“That was two days ago,” Valentine curls around the filing cabinet he's been using for cover, opening fire on another battered synth, it's head already burst open, circuits showing. “I always reserve the right to change my mind!”

MacCready smiles. There's a little bit of space in this room. He doesn't bother pulling the strap off from around his chest, just swings the rifle around and into his arms. Planting the gun against the desk, MacCready has to aim quickly. He waits only enough to make out Weiss’ shimmer as it passes, before hitting a fresh synth through the chest, rupturing a cooling tube.

“Remind me to never piss you off, kid.”

“Not possible.”

Weiss takes down the final synth in this room. The stealthboy still has time left, so Valentine and MacCready trot after a man who isn't strictly there.

\--

They can see Kellogg through the glass. They can hear him through the speakers. His voice mocks Weiss, saying he must be a hell of a popsicle, to make it this far. Determined to find his kid. Maybe, just maybe, this is Kellogg’s end, after all.

Weiss’ face flushes peachy-red, up the column of his throat, over his cheeks, under days’ worth of dark stubble. MacCready doesn't doubt Weiss’ll rip Kellogg in two. There are lots of rumors in the Commonwealth about Kellogg, churned over years and years. In a matter of months, Vishnu Weiss has managed to rack up just as many.

MacCready has chosen his side. And not just because Weiss pays his way. Because MacCready knows what he would do for Duncan, and it's even more than this.

Before Weiss can bolt down the next hallway to the barracks, MacCready grabs his shoulder. “Wait, tactics.”

“He’s right fucking there! I have to, I have to get to him,” Weiss is frantic. MacCready doesn't need to see his eyes, big, dark, and empty. He's been taking mentat doses closer and closer together, the tin close to running empty. No one would be able to stop him today. Neither MacCready nor Valentine have tried.

“Listen, Weiss, focus for a second.” MacCready knows well enough that focus isn't Weiss’ problem right now. Well, it is, but the overabundance of it, zeroed in on Kellogg and nothing else. Getting Weiss to think straight isn't going to happen. MacCready has worked with enough junkies to know that'll never fly. But he can cobble together something that won't get them all killed. If they're dead, they’ll never find Shaun. MacCready will never save Duncan. “I'm going back up the stairs.” 

Weiss looks ready to deck him. If he does, MacCready is a goner. 

“Those big glass windows in the other room, yeah? They slide open. Valentine is going to throw the switch once you're in the room with Kellogg,” MacCready looks back at Valentine, comforted when the detective nods, understanding already the plan. “I'll have a much easier time shooting from up there. And listen, listen.” He rubs Weiss’ arm to keep him with them. 

Weiss is at risk of spiraling out into an infinity where Valentine and MacCready will never be able to find him again. They can't let that happen. MacCready reaches into his pack, looking for the stims he's still got. He passes all four to Valentine, not trusting Weiss to administer them under the circumstances.

“Did you keep any for yourself, kid?” He doesn't miss the concern in Valentine’s voice.

“You do your job and I won't need them,” MacCready brushes him off. But it's nice, for someone to actually care about him. It's...it's been awhile. “Kellogg knows we’re coming. But he thinks it's three of us. He’ll only ever see two. And only one for very long. Sorry that's gotta be you, rust-bucket.”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

“Kellogg’s already got a stealthboy on his wrist too. I saw it. He’ll almost certainly activate it before shooting. You should use yours too, Weiss. Once the glass is open, I'll handle the synths. Valentine just needs to hold their attention long enough for me to shoot.” This will work. There's no keeping Weiss off of Kellogg, so it's better to just let those two idiots play hide-and-seek until the synths are down. 

“Understand, Weiss?” Valentine prompts. On the matter of strategy, he's got no complaints. That lets MacCready breathe easier. This is a good plan. It will work. It will.

“Let's go,” Weiss grabs Valentine’s wrist and drags them both off towards the barracks. 

Sighing, MacCready rushes back upstairs, looking for where he can best hide himself in between churning generators. The crackle of electricity dulls his senses as he waits. None of the synths look at him. Kellogg keeps speaking into the microphone, taunting or admiration of Weiss’ dogged pursuit, a mix of both.

It takes Weiss and Valentine several minutes more before they emerge into the command center. MacCready starts to regulate his breathing. In and out, in and out. From his position in the walkway, he's helpless until Valentine throws the windows open. All MacCready can do is listen, wait.

The PA system still runs, though Kellogg no longer holds the receiver. Weiss shouts, his voice full of broken tears and rage. Kellogg’s responses are resigned. He’ll fight, shoot, he’ll fight. But he's resigned too. There is no subduing a father’s wrath.

When this is over, if he lives, MacCready will ask to cash out. Hopefully, Weiss will pay well, or MacCready will loot something off his mangled body worth selling. The caps probably won't be enough, but he can't keep delaying. Duncan is dying.

“In a hundred years, when I die,” Weiss seethes, his voice cracking over the PA system, reverberating across the fort. “I hope to meet you in hell. So I can kill you all over again.”

Weiss hits his stealthboy first. Kellogg only a moment after. And they're gone.

MacCready can hear the chaos over the PA, distant, like listening to it on the radio while he watches from behind thick glass.

Valentine lays out the first shot, splicing across the nearest synth’s head. Enough to wound but not to kill. Without another visible target, the synths zero in on the detective, striding towards his position, lasers raised. Valentine, lowers his rifle, trying to dash between the two synths instead, racing for the command panel. MacCready has to hope he knows which switch is the right one. He's been banking on Valentine having some sort of...synth sense for electronics, and being able to ascertain quickly what the right button is.

Smashing his fist against the console, Valentine keeps running until he slides behind another deck. Against the opposite wall, there's gunfire, laser blasts, but no bodies. Kellogg and Weiss shoot at ghosts.

The glass starts sliding down, not quick enough for MacCready’s tastes. But he lines up his shot. He needs to get the first one right. The synth furthest from Valentine is about to throw a grenade. No. MacCready readjusts, aiming for the more distant synth, hoping he can get his shot off before the machine throws.

He can't. The grenade flies before MacCready can aim under the lowering glass. He pulls the trigger, sure as anything, blasting straight through the synth’s skull. The shot gives away his position, but MacCready yells at Valentine to move. But he’s boxed in. Valentine has no space left. The stims are in his pocket. 

The grenade goes off. EMP. It takes the closer synth out too. No, no no nono.

There is only Kellogg left. Weiss phases back to visible, Kellogg not far behind. There is a hole in Kellogg’s skull, clear through his eye and out the other end. But he doesn't fall. He's not a synth? Is he? MacCready doesn't know. Weiss throws himself at Kellogg. Valentine is still down.

MacCready leaves his rifle, it's no help now. Not with the way Weiss screams and thrashes, his huge hand clawing at the hole in Kellogg’s face, ripping flesh away. Kellogg screams like a dying animal. He is a dying animal. If MacCready keeps looking, he will be sick. 

Valentine. Valentine. Valentine.

Weiss won't be quiet, and the wet sounds of him pummeling Kellogg’s limp body continue on.

Valentine lies still. His eyes dark. What must amount to his pupils are huge, covering almost the entire surface of the eyes that should be bright yellow. Stims. Stims work on Valentine. MacCready is sure of it. All later model synths, after the gen 1s can use stims. Searching through Valentine's pockets, MacCready can't catch his breath. His heart pounds in the cage of his chest, his hands shaking, trying to find the syringes. Grabbing two, he uncaps the first. But he doesn't know where to stick it.

Weiss is still screaming. Kellogg has gone quiet.

MacCready holds the stim barrel between his teeth, needing his hands to tear open Valentine’s shirt. He pulls sharply until the buttons fly off, skittering across the floor. Finding an intact patch of skin over the right side of Valentine's chest, wrapping all the way down to his stomach and across his hip, MacCready hopes for the best and jabs the needle in. Then the second dose. He holds his palm to Valentine’s chest, where his heart would be. The skin is surprisingly warm, and soft. MacCready can feel the flutter of components stirring back into functionality, as clear and vibrant as a heart beating, lungs rising and falling.

He can breathe a little easier when Valentine’s eyes light back up, golden and harsh. Valentine is okay, he's okay.

Weiss doesn't make words, mostly. But sometimes he cries, “Nate, Nate.”

“Kellogg?” Valentine asks, oblivious, maybe, to the fact his head rests in MacCready’s lap. MacCready presses the pads of his fingers to the hollow of Valentine’s neck. He's been wondering for some time now what it feels like. He strikes against the wire there, memorizing the ridges, the different textures of mismatched insulation. Valentine doesn't stop him.

“Dead, I'm sure.”

“Has Weiss been like this for long?”

They still don't stand, waiting out Weiss’ storm. 

“Six or seven minutes. I don't think we should startle him.”

Valentine turns his head, allowing MacCready fuller access to his throat. MacCready recognizes the intimacy of it. He keeps his touch in motion, too scared to linger. But wanting to remember.

“I think you're probably right, Robert.” Valentine sighs. The wordless noise from Valentine's lips is either of pleasure or exhaustion. “He’ll wear himself out. Eventually.”

They wait until Weiss’ screams soften to quiet sobs. MacCready can't keep his hands away from Valentine's throat, even long after the detective has drawn the edges of his now buttonless shirt back together. He wonders if now that he is ‘Robert,’ if Valentine is ‘Nick.’ And what that's going to mean tomorrow, tonight, an hour from now, in twenty seconds when they stand and try and make sense of what Kellogg has done and what Weiss will do in retaliation.

Slowly, they get up off the ground, MacCready offers his hand to Valentine to help him up. They stand three feet off of Weiss, waiting for him to acknowledge them first. He does, eventually, wiping his nose against his shirt sleeve, dragging ragged breaths. His eyes don't turn. He only stares at the corpse in front of him. The laser pistol, his fists, his chest, all covered in Kellogg's blood.

“Shaun’s at the Institute,” Weiss finally says, “I need to go there.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Valentine speaks first.

“Someone has to know a way in,” MacCready follows up. He can still feel the heat of Valentine’s body, pressed close to his. 

Weiss sticks his bloodied hand back into Kellogg’s carrion, pulling at a metal edge. “He's full of shit like this.” The augmentation doesn't come all the way out, dragging against the flesh that has melded with it. “He's full of Institute bullshit.”

“I'll pull them out. Might help us, somehow,” Valentine offers. He lights one cigarette, trying to pass it off to Weiss. The vaultie takes it, marking the white paper red. “Robert, why don't you take Weiss outside for some air?” He lights a second stick, keeping that one for himself.

“Yeah, sure.” MacCready offers his hand, hoping Weiss will take it, instead of trying to rip it off. “We’ll get you cleaned up too.”

MacCready and Weiss leave Valentine behind to sort through Kellogg’s bones, his personal effects too. No one knows where the Institute is. And their best lead has been torn to shreds. MacCready doesn't question Weiss’ actions for a moment. He would have done the same.

Outside, the sun falls against the horizon, setting the world on fire, far as MacCready can see. He knows it's further than Weiss can see, even without the haze of blood over his eyes. It seems like the right thing, in this moment, to keep hold of Weiss’ hand, in case he tries to float away.

The sky darkens. But it's artificial, not the brilliant setting sun. Overhead, a behemoth flies. A giant balloon made of cloth and metal. A skyship, like nothing MacCready has ever seen before. Except it is like many things he's seen before. Since turning sixteen and crawling up above ground, into a world that got scrambled by another underground boy who didn't know any better, and an army that should've. MacCready’s stomach drops out.

MacCready doesn't need to hear the announcement, broadcast over the Wasteland that will never really be his home. But all the same, the voice booms across the expanse. “We are the Brotherhood of Steel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, the burn isn't ending up as slow as I thought it would be....


	8. Change Lanes in the Parking Lot

“I'm going back to Cambridge,” Weiss grits his teeth, grinding them down. He won't be dissuaded.

They’re camped at Oberland Station, the Minutemen’s hard work paying dividends with a hot meal that MacCready doesn’t have to cook, and a trio of almost-clean mattresses. The settlers already have an established guard tower rotation, so the services of “a synth” are not needed. Valentine doesn't miss their disdain, but he just as soon forgives it. Long ago, he gave up on resentment.

Valentine picks at food on the corner of MacCready’s plate. But only because he knows there's enough for MacCready to grab seconds, or thirds, or fourths, if he wants. Gives Valentine an excuse to sit close at MacCready’s side. The fire may keep them warm, but MacCready doesn't push him away. As the meal continues, he relaxes until their shoulders brush against each other.

“What about the Institute?” MacCready chews on his roasted mirelurk.

“That has to be why the Brotherhood is here, right?” Weiss has his arms wrapped around folded legs. He finished eating ages ago, only scarfing down enough to keep him going. The mentats can suppress appetite, but like any functional addict, he knows he has to force himself to eat sometimes. As far as Valentine can tell, Weiss isn’t losing weight. “So I'm going to see what Paladin Danse knows. You two should talk to Piper, get her ears and eyes on this.” Weiss has this way of making commands sound like polite suggestions.

Valentine nods. His suggestion would be to run this past Piper as well. But he would leave the Brotherhood out of it entirely. He's got faith that MacCready would think the same. Sending Weiss by himself after Danse is not going to get them anywhere. Those two together? Sooner or later it’ll be a tinderbox. That or Weiss will come out the only one of the two broken and charred. “We should start with Piper. Only involve the Brotherhood if we need to.”

“No.” Weiss stands up, dusting himself off. “We split up. For now. Get this done. I'm heading out.”

“Weiss, it's going to be dark for another eight hours.” The days are painfully short, and the sun has only just set. They should, at the very least, spend the night at camp.

“You guys can wait until morning. But it's not so far onto the police station.” Weiss checks his pistol clip. He must find it to his satisfaction, because he rolls it closed again. “I'll stealth the whole way there, get there well before dawn. I'm good.”

MacCready doesn't question, just chews his dinner, tries not to raise a fuss. While Valentine would have appreciated some back up on this, maybe MacCready has the right idea, just to let this go. This argument is unwinnable.

“Hey, Dogmeat,” Valentine calls. “Take care of your idiot master. I don't need another missing person’s report.” 

The dog can't possibly understand any of that, but he yips back with apparent happiness at being acknowledged.

Valentine stands up too, so he can embrace Weiss before he leaves. This plan is fucking terrible, but it's the one Weiss has decided on. Weiss is a man who spent his whole life convincing other people that he knows better than them. Maybe it's Valentine’s old memories that keep him so suspicious. Plenty of hours with prosecutors wrapping up his cases, going over reports in meticulous detail, putting the bad guys behind bars. And on the other side of the room, the defenders, trying to undo the work the other-him accomplished. Valentine has never asked directly on which side Weiss stood. He's not sure he wants to know.

MacCready puts down his plate to clap Weiss’ hand. Weiss uses the handshake to pull him up and in closer for a hug, sticking his nose into MacCready’s hair and mumbling something unintelligible, even with the benefit of Valentine’s augmented hearing. Valentine knows he shouldn't feel this little well of jealousy, but he does.

Weiss leaves with the dog, fading out into the blackness of night. 

“I'm going to have one more smoke before bed.” Valentine makes a show of pulling out his pack. “Not polite to smoke where people eat, though.”

The two walk out behind the shack, keep on going until the edge of the settlement. Valentine ascertains a blind spot in the guard’s field of vision. He doesn't need the added stress, minor though it is, of being watched. They've attracted a lot of attention as it is. This isn't really about his last cigarette. He shoves the stick back in the pack.

“Is he going to be okay?” MacCready asks.

Valentine has known him longer, so he guesses he's the expert on Vishnu Weiss. “If something out here was about to kill him, it would have gotten him already.”

“Yeah, yeah I guess.” MacCready kicks at the dirt.

“Aw, hell.” Valentine reaches forward with his softer hand. No less mechanical, or strange, but it is softer, cupping the side of Robert’s face. He's been thinking about this for awhile. About the cycles of care they've adopted so easily. Meals, warmth, and stimpaks. Seems inconsequential laid out in such plain terms. But Valentine isn't a plain man. Not like people assume synths to be. There might be something to the argument that he's not a man at all, but he's never been one to let other people dictate who he is. But maybe there is some truth to the argument that he’ll never be a man, because he's got these two lives rattling around in one synth brain. But both of those impulses tell him this is what he wants. To put his hand on Robert’s cheek, to feel the pulse of his life through his skin, like how at the fort, Robert couldn't keep his hands off Valentine’s neck. It's the same. Trying to figure out how the other one lives.

Robert’s bright eyes drift closed, his head tilting into Valentine’s hand. It's so simple. They're both enamored, but it's not dangerous. Because they're not fighting it.

“Robert?”

His eyes open again, “Yeah, Nick?”

Leaning down to make their mouths touch, Valentine presses his lips against Robert’s, certain now that rejection won't follow. Not from the dozed look Robert adopts, not from the way his hands come to form fists around the lapels of Valentine’s coat, like he's about to climb inside and soak up the warmth of running components. They kiss, unhurried and confident in the darkness. Valentine wishes he could shut his eyes. But they continue to pierce through the shell of blackness. Well, he could shut them, blot out the light with ever expanding pupils, but he also wants to watch the way Robert sighs into the kiss. He wants to feel how Robert comes up on his toes, trying to meet him half-way. There's something perfect in the simplicity of it.

“Been thinking about that for long?” Valentine smirks.

Robert laughs, “Not that long, I don't think. Like it though. Not at all like sucking on a coolant container.”

“You sure know how to flatter a guy,” Valentine isn't mad. Not in the least. He keeps running his finger over MacCready’s cheekbone, right above where his stubble starts. “We should get back. You need to sleep.”

“Give us a minute, yeah?” Robert kisses him again, just as long, as necessary, before pulling away with a smile.

They walk back to the shack side by side, their arms grazing against each other as they step. Now maybe isn't the time to talk about the future. Honestly, Valentine isn't considering it much. Weiss may not be the best cart to hitch their horses to, but he's the only one hell bent on the sort of change Valentine is after. He's got no doubts that Weiss will do the right thing for the Commonwealth, in the end. While he worries about Danse, what sort of influence he’ll be upon Weiss, Valentine is confident that the vaultie isn't that much of a fucking idiot. So right now, they just need to think about tomorrow.

“So we’ll head to Diamond City in the morning. Catch Piper up on the situation.”

MacCready nods, pulling off his duster so he can drape it over himself as he sleeps. Valentine would like nothing better than to crawl in beside him, keep him warm, but the mattress is narrow and the settlers are already on edge with his presence. Sometimes he forgets that the Diamond City residents have had plenty of time to get uses to the silver and the holes. Out here on the fringes, synths only come in two types, and neither are welcome. So maybe climbing into bed with the conventionally handsome, if rather scrawny, merc isn't the best idea. Valentine thinks about it though, as he drifts into semi-stasis.

\--

The pack of Gunners up ahead don't get the jump on them, exactly. Only maybe neither MacCready nor Valentine were as attentive as they should have been, weaving their way in between narrow alleys, trying to avoid combat on their way back to Diamond City. The old Boston streets can be treacherous at any time, under any conditions. They should have known better.

All and all, things could have been worse. Only MacCready doesn't get a chance to devise “tactics” and get a clean shot on at least one of them before the Gunners can open fire. And behind the stack of cinder blocks, lined up in a row for a construction project that was never completed, MacCready is breathing heavy.

“Listen, Valentine, there’s maybe something you should know.” It only takes MacCready a manner of seconds to steady his hands, even as bullets whip by, chipping at the concrete. “Some of these guys, they might know me.”

“Fuck,” Valentine mutters. They do not have time for this. “Is there anything else you feel like sharing?” He tries to calculate the position of the Gunner with the plasma rifle from the sound the round makes cutting through the air, landing flat against the wall opposite the cinder block barrier.

“I'll explain later, okay? When they're not trying to kill us.”

“Really, because from where I'm cowering in fear, it sounds like you may or may not have personally offended the most dangerous, fucked up, sadistic group of mercs in the Commonwealth. I, for one, worry we are fucked.”

MacCready pops around the barricade long enough to fire two rounds. Clearly he only needed one. Valentine can make out the faint gurgle as the Gunner dies. Brutal. Valentine reaches over their cover, using only three rounds of his laser, which should be enough, if he hits. But one misses, damn. 

A grenade soars over the barrier, landing at their backs, and they gotta move. MacCready dives one way, Valentine the other. Debris spits up in the wake of the explosion, but they're both still moving. MacCready finishes off the Gunner Valentine stupidly let live.

The others go down easier, holes to their throats and chests, depending on who is firing. Headshots are pretty, sure but MacCready’s placement even more sublime. Valentine is more concerned that they go down dead than paint a masterpiece. 

When the volley of shots quiets, Valentine finally lets himself relax. His shoulders shift back down, his grip on his laser rifle loosens. 

MacCready’s hat sits askew on his head, letting a fall of ashy-brown hair droop out. His face is speckled with blood. It takes Valentine a moment to realize MacCready has been injured. Not severely, just bits of plastic and stone scraped against his nose and cheeks. Must've been from the grenade.

“That was your fault, by the way.” Valentine pats his breast pocket, memories triggering for a cigarette to calm his nerves. “Now. You'd better talk, MacCready.”

MacCready straightens his hat first, dusts off his coat second, and offers Valentine a hand up third. In a gesture that is too sentimental, Valentine wants to wipe away the blood from Robert’s face. He hands him a handkerchief from his pocket instead.

Not knowing what to do with the handkerchief, MacCready just holds it limply in his hand, waiting for Valentine to act first.

“Talk.”

“I'm not one of them anymore,” MacCready offers as defense. “But that's my situation, get it? You don't just walk out on the Gunners.”

“Not one of them anymore,” Valentine mocks. “You’re a fucking liability, that's what you are. You didn't think this was relevant information to share?”

“No,” MacCready seethes, “I didn't. It's my own business and I'm taking care of it.”

“Of all the enemies we’re making, you just dragged us in with the fucking Gunners?” MacCready was just trying to protect his own ass, his own caps. Otherwise, he would have fucking said something earlier. 

“Fu-Whatever. Weiss needed me to go after Kellogg. Well, Kellogg is dead, so I guess my job is over.” MacCready grabs the edges of his coat, wrapping them tighter around his body. He doesn't drop the handkerchief, just keeping it curled in his fist.

Valentine sighs, covering his face with his hand. “How did you get mixed up with the Gunners in the first place?”

MacCready shrugs his shoulders, “You’ve seen me shoot. It didn't take long after coming to the Commonwealth to make a name for myself, in those sort of circles. But,” MacCready starts rushing his words. “I wanted out. I wanted out and I got out. Once I saw what the Gunners are about. The sort of jobs they took. I don't want to be that sort of man. But I've still only got the one skill. They don't appreciate my freelancing.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Valentine doesn't mean to take MacCready’s lie of omission as a personal offense. It sort of feels like it, though.

“You weren't exactly forthcoming when we met, either, Valentine.” MacCready has a point there.

“We should get to Diamond City,” Valentine tries to think practically. Also, he doesn't want to concede that MacCready might be right.

Once they're through the gates, safe in the city’s embrace, Valentine wonders where the two of them stand. With his anger dulled against the cut of MacCready’s logic, Valentine wants to invite Robert back to the agency. Maybe try and come up with a solution to this Gunner problem. But with their...personal circumstances changed, Valentine isn't so sure the offer for Robert to come home with him, at the edges of dusk, is an appropriate one.

If he gives MacCready caps for a room at the Dugout, MacCready won't use them. And he's not sure the lack of an offer to spend the night is better than making the suggestion. It's not as if they have to do anything risqué, just because Robert might spend the night in his bed. Valentine can take the desk chair again. Only he keeps thinking about the way Robert’s chest rises and falls as he breathes, thin skin pulled over solid ribs. And the pressure of soiled hands pressing against his chest as Robert kisses him into oblivion. He keeps thinking that this time, they could be alone.

“Need a place to crash?” Valentine tries to sound non-committal.

“No, ah. I swiped some things earlier, for trade. I'll be alright.”

Valentine doesn't believe for a second MacCready is telling the truth. What he’s really going to do is sleep in an alley or some shit. But this time, Valentine can't argue without looking self-serving. So he doesn't fight it. Still, they walk through the marketplace together, MacCready’s eyes shifting from stall to stall, at every passerby too.

“I'll see you in the morning, at Publick Occurrences, yeah?” MacCready starts stepping away to make his trade.

“Sure thing,” Valentine reaches for his cigarettes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up! Next week I'll be starting the companion story to this one that follows Weiss and Danse. The goal is that No Document will update either once or twice a week, and the Weiss/Danse story will update once a week. It shouldn't be necessary to read both to understand either! But I've had a couple of people ask about more fic with the other pairing, so if that interests you, it's happening.


	9. Just take the loss, because another win might be a curse

MacCready spends the caps for a room at the Dugout. He doesn't want to be caught out lying to Valentine. It's only twenty caps out of the fifty-six he makes off of salvage. And he has a box of Dandy Boys in his pack that he chews through in the quiet of his room. The lamp overhead has space for two bulbs, but one of them is out. MacCready prefers sleeping with the lights on.

After crawling into bed, he stares as the water-stained ceiling. He tries first to think about baseball. What it was like two-hundred years ago when you could dream about hitting the big leagues. One of the boons of being mayor was a collection of stained cards that belonged to one of the original kids. They used to be glossy, by the time MacCready got his hands on them, they were made matte by dozens of hands they passed between.

But he doesn't think about baseball for long. Because he starts thinking about Nick’s hands instead. Nick back at the agency. He wonders if he takes off his clothing to sleep in the bed, patches of wire and components open to the air, but mostly smooth, warm casing. Whether he has his last cigarette. If he thinks about MacCready while he smokes.

He thinks about kissing Nick. How it’s easier than it should have been. Because in the moments they’re close, MacCready doesn't think about the holes in Nick’s body, the visible seams. But he does think about the way not-skin is warm and gives to the touch. What it would be like to touch everywhere and be unashamed. And to have Nick’s hands on him too. The drag of the exposed metal digits, MacCready doesn't yet know what that hand feels like.

He thinks about glowing eyes and mechanical parts, wondering if something is wrong with him.

\--

Weiss isn't around, so there's no reason to be absolutely punctual. But MacCready walks into Publick Occurrences at nine am on the dot. 

Piper is already up, notebooks spread across her desk, the tip of a pen between her teeth. She's not dressed for the day, in a pair of loose fitting sweats and a white tee. Her hair falls in waves skimming her shoulders. MacCready worries he walked in on a private moment between her and her words, given how absorbed she is in the texts before her. A loop of hair sticks out from the rest. He's struck again by how utterly beautiful she is.

“Um, sorry, Valentine said…” It seems more awkward to leave than to alert her of his presence.

“Oh!” She smiles, “Yeah, he's not much of a morning person...synth...you know?” She tucks her pen behind her ear, rocking back in her swivel chair. “Where’s Blue?”

MacCready keeps his place just before the door, unsure if he should sit down or not. Piper sticks her socked feet up on the desk. She's completely at home here.

“He said he was going to Cambridge,” MacCready’s not sure how much he should share. He hopes Valentine gets here soon. Because he doesn't know what Piper is supposed to know, but he does know that Piper wants to know everything and she's just staring at him with a pretty smile. MacCready swallows hard. “Are you sleeping with him?” He blurts out, because he's got nothing else to fill the dead air.

Piper laughs and laughs, pounding her fist to her chest. When she starts talking again, it's with her hands as much as her lips. “Why? Which one of us are you interested in, hm?”

The door behind MacCready clicks open. Turning, he’s faced with Valentine’s chest and neck. Good. Oh, good. This’ll hopefully be the ladder he needs to climb back out of the hole he’s inadvertently dug. But he doesn't even realize that how close he's standing to Valentine is too close. And he's making no effort to move. Valentine smells like the smoke that clings permanently to his coat. It's comforting. Almost reaching forward to grab the lapel, MacCready stops himself just short.

“Valentine, how good of you to join us.” Piper hops out of her chair. “Let me get dressed and we’ll go for a walk.”

“You could have gotten ready before I got here?” Valentine observes.

Piper waves him off, “Never rush a lady, you should know that.” Taking the steps two at a time, she heads back upstairs. MacCready doesn't see any sign of her sister. 

Nick’s hand wraps just above MacCready’s hip, folding into the fabric there. “You didn't sleep outside, did you?” he asks all earnest. MacCready forgets that this is supposed to be odd. That his chest feels all fluttery from a bucket of screws and scrap.

“No,” MacCready keeps his voice low. “I didn't.”

“Good, it's too cold.” He squeezes MacCready’s side. “Once we’re done with Piper, we need to talk.”

MacCready nods, but his stomach is in knots. What Nick wants to talk about, he doesn't know. Could be great, but it's probably terrible. Terrible is the norm. A flicker in his blood tells MacCready he should just kiss him again, quick, before Piper returns. Just to steal that taste, in case what Nick wants to talk about is how he shouldn't kiss him again. But the hand at his waist tells him that's not it.

Valentine’s hand is gone by the time Piper heads back downstairs, the volume of her hair bouncing as she descends. She's got a 10mm on her hip and a smile on her lips. “So, let's go for a walk.”

Locking the door behind her, Piper takes up the lead. They stroll nowhere in particular just around the city blocks. MacCready thinks it's weird. He wasn't expecting the walk.

The high walls of the city at least do a good job of breaking the wind. But the air is still cold, even though the sky is bright and clear. MacCready keeps his hands in his pockets. It's not his place to talk. That’s Valentine’s job.

“We need a way into the Institute. That's where they took Shaun,” Valentine explains.

“First thing’s first,” Piper interrupts, “someone's gotta tell me where Blue is.”

“Oh, Christ. He's gone to Cambridge.”

“Cambridge?” Piper narrows her eyes. “Why go back? What did you find?”

“I take it you saw as good as anyone the Brotherhood of Steel arrive on their bloated ship?”

Piper nods, “Kinda hard to miss. What with the racket they made about being here to ‘save the Commonwealth’” she makes scare quotes with her bent fingers. 

MacCready’s glad her opinion seems in line with his own.

“Well, the station at Cambridge had a Brotherhood team there. Before the blimp arrived. We helped them a little. At Weiss’ insistence. He's gone back there. A Paladin Danse.”

“I don't trust him,” MacCready blurts. “Paladin Danse, I mean.”

“I'm not inclined to believe anyone who thinks they're just going to fly in on a bunch of hot air and fix the world. Takes more work than that,” Piper scowls.

They stop walking out by the wall. Piper leans against it, her red coat set off against the cool green. Crossing her arms over her chest, she bites her bottom lip.

“I think the three of us are in agreement about the Brotherhood. But it's going to take something else to convince our fearless leader,” Valentine concludes.

“How can he think talking to the Brotherhood...never mind,” Piper waves one hand. “Getting into the Institute, that's our next step, right? Well, no one knows where that is. No one’s ever seen it. Well,” Piper tilts her head. “You've seen it, Valentine. You must've.”

Valentine shakes his head. “You know I'm wiped clean. Honestly, I think I like it better that way.” He fidgets with his cigarette pack, but doesn't take one out. The harsh sun hits against his face, making it look brighter than usual.

“Kellogg would have known,” Piper suggests.

Valentine shakes his head, “Weiss killed him.” He spares Piper the grim details. “But what if?”

“You got an idea, Nick?” 

“Doc Amari, at the Memory Den. I pulled some augments out of Kellogg's corpse. Maybe she can make something of it?”

Piper nods enthusiastically, “Alright. Now we just need Blue.”

“He’ll be back,” MacCready says, certain. “He's not just going to forget about finding his son. He went to Cambridge to get help. When he sees the Brotherhood are only interested in themselves, he’ll be back.” By the time he's done talking, his hands are shaking. The cold. He stuffs them back into his pockets.

“You're right,” Valentine says. “We know our next move. Once Weiss gets back, we head to Goodneighbor.” He sticks his pack back into his chest pocket. “Until then, MacCready and I have something that needs attention. Shouldn't take long. Piper, if Weiss comes back into town, use your feminine wiles to make him stay put.”

She rolls her eyes, “Like that's a thing I can do.”

They split up, Piper heading back to the paper, MacCready and Valentine following the line of the wall as far as it’ll take them. MacCready’s nervous, of course he is, having only a vague idea what ‘needs attention.’

“What’s your strategy for getting the Gunners to leave you alone?” Valentine keeps his eyes straight ahead.

MacCready has thought about this before. But it seemed so out of the range of possibilities, especially since he’s already scrounging caps to hire help to get into Med-Tek. There’s no way there would be enough to spare on his own predicament. He doesn’t have the caps to pay Valentine for this, but he’s got to trust that’s not what the detective is after. Not the guy who admits to following cold trails for pocket change, or just the lint, if that’s all people have to give. MacCready doesn’t even have that much.

“When you first met me? The two Gunners who were there, Barnes and Winlock. They think they can prove their worth by taking me down. They didn’t dare do it inside Goodneighbor’s walls though. And now, well, they probably just haven’t found me. We’ve been moving around a lot.” He keeps his hands stuck in the pockets of his duster. “But if they were out of the picture. That would send a message, for sure.”

“So, where do we start?” Valentine is so earnest, it nearly breaks MacCready right there. He doesn’t have to do this. He doesn’t owe MacCready anything. 

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” 

Their shoulders brush against each other as they walk. 

“Okay, yeah,” MacCready tilts his head to one side. “If we attack them first, get the jump on them, we stand a chance. They’re not going to expect both of us. I know where they’re holed up. It’s just to the west of here.”

Valentine keeps nodding. MacCready keeps looking at him, wondering if it would be too weird to try and hold hands. Does he even want to? No one can get a good look at them out here by the wall. Their shoulders bump together again. 

“So, we kit up, we go. Have this wrapped up by the time Weiss pulls the stick out of his ass,” Nick smiles, bringing them to a halt. 

Suddenly, Nick’s insistence that they follow the path of the wall doesn’t seem so arbitrary. They’ve curved around to a point they’re completely obscured from the rest of the city, beams and homes, corn and scrap all in the way. Even in the clutches of the city, they’re alone. 

MacCready wants to be proactive, but he sort of hates having to come up on the balls of his feet. So he puts his hand to Nick’s collar first, running his thumb against the stiff fabric, once, twice, before curling his fingers and dragging Nick down. He can feel Nick smiling through the kiss, then his hand at MacCready’s waist, coming round until it sits on his back. 

MacCready backs Valentine up until he’s against the wall, sturdiest in the Wasteland. Keeps everything out, and in. Nick’s hat topples over, falls into the dirt. If he minds, he doesn’t say. Pushing his body against Nick’s, MacCready wonders how much Nick can feel? If he knows how warm it’s gotten under the layers of his clothes, how he’d rather be out of them? Maybe, at least, a little. But those thoughts get mixed up with other thoughts. Thoughts about how Nick is still a synth. A synth who wants to kiss him, who wants to wrap his arms around him and hold. And MacCready wants those things too, even if he can’t adequately explain them. He puts his hands on Nick’s shoulders. 

It’s not until then that MacCready realizes he hasn’t been breathing. Nick doesn’t have to breathe, so they’re no impulse for him to pull back from the kiss. Like this, Nick could drown him. MacCready starts to feel light headed, with Nick’s tongue in his mouth, his hands moving from his back and around to the front of his pants. He curls his fingers into the waistband of MacCready’s slacks. There’s that contrast between the two hands, one soft, warm, the other all edges and cold, both pressed against the soft skin of his stomach. Nick pulls him forward, so MacCready is pressed flush against him. 

Pulling back a hair’s breath, MacCready rushes oxygen back into his lungs. He doesn’t want to be away for too long. Doesn’t want to miss that much of the good thing he’s got here at the edges of the city. 

“Breathe through me,” Nick says, his thumbs running over MacCready’s belt in short wipes. The metal one catches, the skin one slides. 

“What?” MacCready thinks he’s misheard. Even so, he doesn’t understand. 

Nick reads the confusion he must wear all over his face. “When we kiss, you can still breathe. Just try.”

MacCready nods, joining their lips again. Because he wants to. He wants to. This time he puts his tongue into Nick’s mouth, always expecting the taste of iron or acid, but only getting something vaguely foreign, soft and palatable, nothing he can place. It’s not until one of Nick’s thumbs, the soft one, brushes against his belly, as if to signal, ‘breathe’ that MacCready does.

And it’s there. Air. Into his nostrils but through his mouth too. It’s just...air. There’s something terrifyingly vast about that. About breathing in Nick’s empty spaces, taking them into his body and using them to survive. The sound he makes in response is undignified, sure. Has to be. But he’s pretty sure he’s long left dignity behind. Forget being proud, if this is the bargain he gets to make.

They’ll have to break apart, eventually. Not to breathe, but to get supplies, leave the city, mess up some Gunners. Try and wrestle back part of MacCready’s life that he thought long gone. Then again, he had thought this part of him, the one that could feel heat in his stomach and ice on his spine, had been wrecked forever too.

MacCready could admit to being wrong. Sometimes.


	10. Easy to be blinded when looking directly at the infinite object

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe...how many people have read this and commented on it and I'm just a big fucking mess about it okay? So here's the next chapter a little early.
> 
> Mind the rating change.

“How accurately can you throw?”

Valentine and MacCready are curled up behind an old shipping crate that’s been lodged in the Wasteland dirt for the last two-hundred years. From the open top, long grass grows, tall enough to stick up over the edge. 

“Pretty well. Well enough,” Valentine corrects. They keep their voices low. They’re close enough to the Mass Pike Interchange that they could be heard. Up above, the Gunners, Barnes and Winlock included, should be milling about on the old highway. Valentine remembers when it used to be packed with commuters. It would be easier just to bring the whole Pike down. But it’s not like the two of them are going to be able to finish what centuries of decay haven’t managed. 

MacCready pulls two fragmentation grenades from his pack, passing one to Valentine. “Okay, so the Gunners down here are probably low-level, rookies. They don’t take just anyone though, so they’ve probably still got some fight in them.” The comment about the Gunners’ prowess sounds almost like a boast. Valentine doesn’t mention it, because, yeah, MacCready is that good with a gun. “Wait for me to throw first, I’m going to do it from the other side. Aim for just north of the elevator. I assume you can see it from here?

Valentine nods, of course he can. 

“I’ll be throwing to the south. Now, they’ll be split on which direction to run, I think they’ll come towards you, since you’re the second grenade. But I can’t be certain.” MacCready double checks his rifle. “I’ll start with the one I can see closest to you, then the one closest to me. And alternate. You don’t need to do anything unless I miss one and they get too close to you.”

Valentine doesn’t question MacCready’s tactics. They haven’t steered them wrong yet. Still, he can’t help but worry, a little. Because he’s taken to the habit of worrying about Robert. And he’s just not sure the rate of fire on his sniper rifle is going to cut it. Then again, MacCready probably knows better than he does what he is and isn’t capable of coaxing from that gun. 

“Okay, after its clear down here, we’ll have to take the elevator.”

“They won’t come down?”

“No,” MacCready pulls the brim of his had low onto his forehead. “They have the advantage up there. They might be stupid, but not that stupid.”

When just before MacCready was arguing that the Gunners were clever, now his opinion has switched. But he’s smarter, or at least thinks he is. Valentine would take that wager. For sure.

“Upstairs will be harder. Since, you know, I can’t see it yet. And the elevator will take us up into the center of the base. We’ll just have to watch our backs, hope for the best.”

“Wing an a prayer, eh?”

“Wouldn’t have pegged you as the praying type, Valentine.” MacCready smiles. He starts to turn away, needing to covertly shuffle himself to the other side of the exchange to initiate the plan. 

Valentine grabs him at the shoulder before he can get too far, turning Robert back around. “See you at the elevator,” he leans forward, kissing at the corner of Robert’s mouth. When he pulls away, he can see the smile reach Robert’s eyes. Bold and bright.

“See you,” MacCready disappears around the crate. Valentine can’t do anything else but wait for the first explosion. 

Long minutes tick by. He tries not to worry. There's no noise other than the wind and some idle chatter between the two closest Gunners. Some back and forth about breakfast, how the bread had mold. As if that could be the worst of their troubles.

As long as the Gunners are idle, that must mean that Robert is safe. There would be a ruckus for certain, were he caught. So Valentine keeps the grenade in one hand, careful not to jostle it. They're always weightier than he expects.

A Gunner shouts a warning, two seconds before the explosion. That's enough time for Valentine to pop over the crate and lob his grenade. He's got the strength, and his aim is good enough for a direction as vague as ‘to the north.’ So he's confident that he's done what MacCready expects of him. The second frag goes off and the minutes of chaos begin.

The Gunners, for what it's worth, behave as MacCready expected them to. There are shouts from above of “THE FUCK,” and a second voice, “WHAT’S GOING ON?” But the elevator doesn't budge. The Gunner closest to Valentine, a young woman in the early twenties, maybe. No older than MacCready, gets the top of her head skimmed off, blonde hair and all. There’s enough life left in her to wail as she falls, but she's dead by the time she hits the dirt.

MacCready does as he said, alternating targets. Valentine keeps his hand on his laser rifle, but doesn't end up firing a round. When all six Gunners are down, MacCready calls for him, “Valentine!”

He takes that as his cue to run to the elevator. Robert looks untouched, just some dirt on his duster and sweat on his brow. They're surrounded by corpses. Overhead, the screaming continues. Robert looks up at the overpass, probably trying to formulate the rest of his plan. The elevator will kill them as soon as anything. Sitting ducks. Quack, quack.

“Do you hear it?” MacCready asks. When he looks back to Valentine, his eyes are uncertain.

Valentine listens too, picking apart the shouting and stomping boots. The loading and unloading of guns. Metal footsteps against concrete. The whir of motors.

“They have an Assaultron.”

MacCready nods.

“They bother you?”

“They can kill a man near instan-”

“No,” Valentine interjects, “they bother you.”

“Not really,” MacCready hesitates, “they didn't used to. I mean, they're robots. They're not synths, not like…”

“They're not like me.”

“The one on the road to Hagen. It was...afraid. And Kl-e-o, she chose who she wanted to be. It used to be so simple, the way I thought about it. Robots and synths and us.” Valentine assumes at first that ‘us’ means humans. But maybe it's slippage. Maybe MacCready means something different. “But it's not.”

“Never took you for an anti-synth bigot. Not with the tonsil hockey and all.”

Robert smiles, “Wasn't, amn’t. I don't know. Told you, just sometimes, I forget.” He swings his sniper rifle around to his back, the strap pressing against his chest. From one of the Gunners corpses, he picks up a shotgun instead. “I'm going to look for more shells. You want to stick with the laser?”

Valentine asks, “what do you think?”

“Would be better if we had a splitter mod for it. But can't be helped now. I'm not that handy with mods. Just, the guy over there, by the shack. I think he was using cells. See if there are any left.”

Valentine goes over to check the corpse. Truth is, he's got plenty of ammunition already, but doesn't hurt to have some more. There's a stimpak on the guy too. This one MacCready got in the throat. His eyes are still open, blue and dead.

For all the time they take, no one comes down the elevator. Maybe MacCready is hoping they drop their guard a little, thinking it was just some lucky raiders taking out the rookies. That whoever wiped out the lower level has no intention of coming upstairs. Valentine pops open a cooler, grabbing the purified water from inside and sticking the bottles bulkily in his coat pockets. 

“Ready?” MacCready has the shotgun drawn. The shorter, bulkier gun doesn't suit him. Not like the long, thin sniper rifle. Or that little muted pistol. As rough around the edges as MacCready may be, his execution in combat isn't so crude.

“As I'll ever be.”

“I need you to wait. Take the elevator up after me.” MacCready’s face is dead serious.

“Okay, okay,” normally, Valentine is willing to let MacCready set the tactics, but this is starting to get out of hand. “You said it yourself. There's an Assaultron up there. And now you want to go up yourself? No fucking way.”

From his pocket MacCready pulls another grenade. But not a frag, an EMP. “They’ll put the bot as the front line. But I won't risk having you in the blast radius. I'll send the elevator right back down. Just, this will work. I know it will. They won't be expecting the second person.”

Valentine sees how heavy the grenade is in MacCready’s hand, how he worries his thumb over the casing. In a morbid way, he can't help but thank that grenade back at Hagen. Somehow, it brought Robert’s hand to his throat. Where Robert always punctures other people, but on Valentine, he soothes. Valentine doesn't really notice he's holding his own neck as the elevator ascends.

His processors race as the elevator comes back down. Slowly, too fucking slowly. Above, shots begin before the grenade goes off. But after Valentine can make out the sizzle of the Assaultron, the smell of electrical fire. But the shouting and screaming and unloading of the shotgun, that keeps on going while he waits. Fuck. He can't hear MacCready’s voice, all he can wait for is the next blast of the shotgun, and try and comfort himself with the idea that it's MacCready unloading.

When Valentine reaches the top, he sees MacCready curled up inside an old freight truck, reloading the shotgun. MacCready catches him too. “Valentine! Second Assaultron! Aim for the legs!” He jumps out of the truck, dashing out of sight. Valentine can only run after him.

It's slow work, taking down the base piece by piece, Gunner by Gunner, turret by turret. They use cover and run quick, splitting up and rejoining as they advance and sometimes retreat. MacCready barks orders at him with utter confidence. Valentine listens, because this isn't his kind of fight. He might know when to lead, but he knows when to listen too.

He almost remembers the specialist again. He was twice MacCready’s age, with dark, purple circles under his eyes and an ever-present smile. He offered his condolences when Jennifer was murdered. They'd sat out on the precinct steps, smoking cigarette after cigarette in silence.

It's not until all the bodies are down that they start looking for Barnes and Winlock. MacCready kicks over corpses to look at their faces. When they don't have heads left, he checks them for jewelry or marks. Their pockets too. He kicks through piles of ash, looking for surviving belongings.

“We got them,” MacCready finally confirms. “The one in the power armor is Winlock. That pile of ash over there is Barnes. I recognize his gun. And none of the other bodies are him.” MacCready leans against one of the rusty cars that has been converted into a makeshift bed. Taking off his cap, he runs a hand through his hair before putting it back on. “It's finished. The Gunners shouldn't be interrupting Weiss’ plans.”

There are plenty of responses Valentine could conjure. Ones to chide MacCready for this situation getting out of hand in the first place. Flirtatious ones, about how this really has very little to do with Weiss. But instead, Valentine pats him on the shoulder. He looks exhausted. 

“What do you think?” MacCready turns the shotgun around in his hands, “think I'll get any caps for it or no? I've already swiped most everything else worth taking, while I was checking the bodies.”

Valentine makes note that MacCready is still worried about caps. But this is not the time to ask.

\--

This time, Valentine doesn't question himself, or Robert. He asks while they're approaching Diamond City, instead of inside the gates. Gives Robert an out, if he still needs it. “Come back to the agency?”

It's just past eleven and Ellie would have headed home, or to the bar, at least two hours ago. Girl’s gotta have fun, right? And Ellie deserves everything she can scrape for having to put up with Valentine on his worst days of disorganization and divided attentions.

“Okay.” Robert sounds certain. Valentine likes that certainty.

They’ll see Piper in the morning. Not now. Right now he wants to put his hands wherever Robert is going to let them wander. He barely gets Robert through the door before getting right to it. This desire, the way it builds with so few outlets for expulsion. Sometimes it's easy to push aside, while Valentine’s working, while he's surrounded by friends and neighbors who treat him with as much courtesy as he could ask. But it's painfully difficult to ignore the sparks running along his skin when Robert is near. Knowing that Robert wants him back.

He backs Robert into the corner of his desk, chasing lips with lips, hands skimming along his waistline, trying to ruck up layers of clothes to get at soft skin. The desk shakes under their momentum, the fan toppling over and hitting the floor. Robert looks away, checking to make sure it's not broken, Valentine pulls him back.

“If you don't mind, I'd like your undivided attention.” He grabs at the back of Robert’s thighs, cupping his ass and hoisting him up just enough so that he’ll sit on the edge of the desk. With Robert back on target, mouths joined, Valentine holds onto him until he breathes, air rushing through the gaps in Valentine that time and munitions have left behind. 

Robert’s hands are at his collar, delicate with the buttons. He works them free one by one, fingers skimming against Valentine’s coating as it’s exposed under his ministrations. The process is almost painfully slow. Robert's doing a hell of a job winding him up, if that's his intention.

“Fuck,” Valentine laughs, pulling back. He keeps his hips slotted in between Robert's spread thighs. “You know, after all this time I spent thinking about getting you into bed, I'm not sure I can make it up there now.”

Robert smiles back. “Oh?”

“Mmhmm,” Valentine drawls, skimming his hands under Robert’s coat. Pushing his hands in at the shoulders, he pulls off the duster, letting the fabric pool on the desk at Robert’s waist. Having it off makes his shoulders look narrower already. “Seems like an awful lot of stairs to have to worry about.” With the duster removed, Valentine snakes his hand to the front of Robert’s slacks, squeezing at his growing erection.

“Oh,” Robert tilts his head back, his eyes going hazy. Valentine can't look away. “Nick, I, Nick, I should tell you something.”

Valentine stops groping, pulling his hand away from Robert’s groin and putting it on the top of his thigh instead. Still, he can't help but make little motions, wanting to explore. Robert’s hands are fisted in the lapels of Valentine's coat. His lips red, face flushed. At some point he lost his hat, somehow Valentine hadn't noticed.

And that pit of desire in Valentine just grows and grows, threatening to consume him whole if he can't fill it with something.

“What is it?”

“So, right,” he takes a deep breath, Valentine wishes he could feel it running along his cords. “I haven't been with anyone since, since Lucy. And well, there wasn't a whole lot to me before Lucy. You know,” he laughs a little, but it's a nervous one. “Call us childhood sweethearts. Though we weren't always that sweet to each other. So, help me? Talk me through this, and I'll talk back. Not like I know exactly what I should be doing. You're not, you don't...unless I'm wrong?” Robert frowns a little. “I've never felt anything between your legs.”

“No,” Valentine acknowledges. But I can feel you against me. Everywhere I've still got the coating, I've got receptors. Heat, pressure, all of it. And more that that,” he practically growls, a little surprised at the timbre of his own voice. “I can hear you. So you go right ahead and talk.”

“Oh,” Robert groans. 

Robert starts pulling at Valentine’s shirt, faster now, the slow concentration evaporating. Hiking the shirt out from Valentine’s slacks, Robert gets all the buttons open, pushing off the dress shirt and trench in one go. Valentine doesn't leave him time to start on the undershirt. Grabbing at the hem of what feels like three layers, getting progressively thinner as they approacH skin, he's just got to get Robert loose.

“You wear so many goddamn clothes, Bobby.”

He shivers as Valentine gets the mass of them up and over his head. “It's cold up here.” The static from the sweaters and tees leaves Robert’s hair sticking up at odd angles. Valentine thinks it's fitting, given how electric the mercenary always feels.

Valentine grinds himself against Robert’s erection, feeling it press against the slightly curved plane of his groin. Even through the layers he likes it. He would like it even better without the layers, because then he could see Robert hard and weeping for him. What a pretty picture.

Robert pulls his mouth away just long enough to strip Valentine of his undershirt, before crashing forward again. Valentine braces them so he doesn't topple backwards. He likes it here, with Robert on either side of him, all hands and teeth and wanting. Robert starts his palms at his shoulders before dragging them down to Valentine’s waist, curing around and back up the sides, careful to keep on the skin and not the empty patches.

“Good?” Robert asks, heavy lidded.

“Fucking amazing.”

Ribs showing, skin fluttering with every inhale, Valentine remembers the contours of Robert’s chest when touching wasn't an option. Now, with seemingly everything on the table, he rakes his fingers along Robert’s ribcage, drawing a hiss, then a murmur. Breathy, aroused little “ohs.” He wants to make Robert beautifully loud, filling up the whole agency.

Knocking at one bare shoulder, Valentine gets Robert on his back, his skin against Valentine’s open case files. Maybe future encounters will be reason enough to clean the place up a bit. But Robert doesn't look uncomfortable in the least. He keeps his legs wrapped around Valentine’s hips, the muscles in his thighs flexing, squeezing.

Greedily, Valentine reaches for Robert’s belt, unfastening it first, then moving to his fly. With the belt gone, the pants are sort of too big. Easy to reach in and pull out Robert’s cock. Wet at the tip, hot in Valentine’s hand, fuck does he want this. Wants to watch Robert break to fucking pieces.

“Give me your hand?” Robert asks. Valentine doesn't want to move it from his cock, but he listens.

He's planned to use the soft hand on Robert’s cock. Partners have always preferred that one on their cocks, in their cunts, and the angular metal one somewhere else, where it can scrape for just that edge that's sometimes needed. Robert takes Valentine’s hand in both of his, bringing it to his mouth. He licks against it, making his tongue broad and flat. Fuck, fuck, Valentine hadn't considered quite how good that would feel. The heat of Robert’s tongue and the seep of wetness. Sucking one finger down, then the next, Robert draws away, blowing air on the center of Valentine’s hand, then licking again.

“Fuck, fuck. That's so...good.” He'd planned on trying to get Robert into an utter mess, but the way sensation creeps through his body, Valentine’s no longer quite sure who is leading who.

“Where do you want me to touch you? While you touch me?” Robert asks, swiping his tongue one last time before guiding Valentine’s hand back to his erection.

Instinctually, human-instinctually, Valentine slams his hips into Robert’s, shaking the desk. He starts stroking Robert’s cock with his spit-slicked hand. “My shoulders, chest.” He punctuates with his hips again, this time leaning his taller body over Robert’s. 

Hands flying to Valentine’s shoulders, Robert starts grabbing him, spreading his fingers wide so he can cover as much casing as possible as he roams. 

“It feels so good, Nick, oh. Your hand on my cock,” He lets his head fall back against the desk, lolling to one side. “So good.” He starts chewing at his lip, hips thrusting shallowly up off the desk to intensify Valentine’s strokes. “Do you like to be scratched?”

“Fucking hell,” Valentine hisses, “yes.”

Robert switches from flat palms to short-trimmed nails. But he digs them deep. He drags them across Valentine’s pectoral, where they could come over a heart. Then back again to his shoulder. Through it all he whines and grunts, keeping good on the agreement he's to be loud, expressive. Valentine likes the noise in his ears.

“Nick, Nick, oh, I'm close.”

“Look at me, please,” Valentine nearly begs. Almost. But if Robert doesn't respond right away, he just might.

Tilting his head back, Robert’s blue eyes fly open. 

“Nick,” and then wordless, but just as loud, through his orgasm. He tries to keep his eyes open, locked with Valentine’s. Valentine can tell that much, the way he struggles to stay grounded as he crashes, spilling over Valentine’s hand and his own stomach, pooling in the hollow dip. There's that static running along him, between his ears too. The roar of intimacy. Of watching Robert try to catch his breath. The satisfaction he gets from knowing he did this, made Robert come with such enthusiasm, is exhilarating. 

Without processing what he's doing, he touches the patch of cum on Robert’s stomach, wetting his fingers. He can't taste it, but he still brings it to his mouth like he could.

“Nick?” He's still not come all the way back down, his voice sort of floaty. “Do you need anything else from me?” Robert’s arms wrap around Valentine’s shoulders.

“Ah, no,” Valentine shakes the suggestion away.

Sitting up, Robert looks well fucked, his forehead sweaty, his lips redder than before. He looks fucking alive as hell. Valentine does want him again. And again and again. Chasing this feeling of satisfaction. This picture they've painted together. 

“We’ve been traveling all day. You should clean up and get to bed.”

Robert hops off the desk, grabbing his pile of shirts and pulling out the innermost one. He's unsteady on his feet, but he uses the undershirt to wipe his stomach quickly before cum can get on his slacks. “You're not coming to bed?”

“It's narrow enough. You won't be comfortable.”

“But I want you to.”

Valentine wants that too.


	11. Ring the bells for yesterday and tomorrow, because time is so short, so precious

MacCready wakes before Nick does. Their bodies are crushed together under the sheets, trying to fit in the narrow space, his head against Nick’s chest. Worked out best that way, since Nick is taller. He’s not blisteringly hot, either, Nick having turned his external temperature down a bit. In sort of broad strokes, he had explained to MacCready how he could regulate his temperature. All MacCready figures is this is the right amount of heat for him. Nice to not wake up freezing.

Nick’s eyes are off. Something about that is too haunting. Since he isn't required to sleep anyway, MacCready doesn't feel any guilt at waking him. “Nick?” His mouth is dry and voice hoarse from sleep. “Nick?”

Yellow eyes blinking on, Nick stirs, his arm tightening around MacCready. “Hey, morning. What time is it?”

“Dunno, we didn't set an alarm or anything.” MacCready tries to peek up and over Nick to get a look at the clock. “Seven-forty.”

“We’ve still got time, then.”

“Time for what?”

Nick rolls MacCready onto his back, slotting their legs together and kissing him fiercely. MacCready knows now where the patches of casing are and are not, where his hands should go. He squeezes at Nick’s hip, biting his nails down. His other hand he brushes against the side of Nick’s face, cupping at his cheek. They kiss lazily, long minutes ticking by. MacCready breathes through Nick, tastes the smoke that has stained his mouth and neck. Likes it maybe more than he should. 

He likes the weight of Nick on top of him too, and that he's the right temperature, and that his focus can't possibly be on anything else, not with the way his eyes bore into him. MacCready still feels a little like an insect under a microscope when Nick looks at him. But because Nick is fascinated, not skeptical. MacCready’s heart races, knowing he's hard again against Nick’s thigh. 

While last night was a slow wave, this morning is a series of harsh crashes as Nick jerks him off with one hand. His orgasm hits him as a sudden rush. He tries to keep his eyes open this time. Nick seems to want that.

“Fuck,” Nick leans over the side of the bed to grab the first article of clothing he can find, using it to wipe them both off. It’s Nick’s underwear this time. “I could get used to waking up to that face every morning. That's for fucking sure,” Nick smiles.

MacCready has a momentary grip of panic. “You weren't planning to?” No, wait. Nick must have understood when MacCready told him, last night, that he hadn't been with anyone since Lucy, or anyone before her either. He must have understood that MacCready doesn't do this lightly. Opening up to someone, being this unashamed of his desires and wanting to fulfill the desires of someone else. Intimacy isn't something he just tosses around. MacCready had assumed Nick is, well, serious about him. As crazy as this situation is, MacCready isn't planning on making this a one time thing, or even two or three. He doesn't need a guarantee that this will work, him and Nick, but he expects a promise that they're both going to try.

“Woah, you look pale. Are you alright?” Nick wipes at MacCready’s forehead. “Too hot? I can-” With time, Nick must read the situation a little better. “Oh, right. Don't worry. I'm not about to run out on you. Don't get me wrong, I've been known to have a little fun. But I never had you pegged as that type.”

“No, I'm not.” MacCready asserts. “You're not...having fun with other people, are you?” MacCready winces, he should have asked all these questions before they'd ended up spread over Nick’s desk. Should've asked before they'd kissed.

There are a lot of things he should have asked. 

“Not recently. Some standing offers. But I don't suspect I'll need to take them up.”

“Please, don't. Is that going to be a problem?”

Nick frowns a little, “Not in the slightest. I mean it. If you want monogamy, I can do that.”

MacCready relaxes back into the single pillow they've got to share.

“Check, what time is it now?” Nick asks.

“Eight.”

“Guess we should get moving. Piper will be up by now. And you need a shower. Smell like you got laid.” Nick kisses the protest away from MacCready’s lips.

\--

MacCready carries Piper’s spare coat over his arm, intending to return it. At the pike exchange he'd managed to swipe a couple more sweaters that fit him alright. He doesn’t need Piper’s kindness anymore. Though it had been a nice thought.

He and Nick keep enough space between them as they walk to the paper. There's no need to say anything. They just enjoy the morning. The shops will be opening soon, people bustling through. But right now it's still quiet. Nick tips his hat at Takahashi as they pass the noodle shop. At least MacCready’s stomach doesn't rumble. He was kind of too distracted to eat last night...and this morning. 

Nick knocks on Piper’s door, waiting for an answer. It's Weiss who pops his head through, his shoulders bare and hair wet. It's lost its curl, hanging limply around his shoulders. He hasn't bothered to shave. “We’ve been waiting on you.” He opens the door so they can come in.

Weiss is in only a towel, and he's still sopping wet, dripping over the floor. But at least he's covered, kind of. 

“Piper?” Nick asks.

“Showering herself.” Weiss clicks his tongue. “She said you had an idea, Val?”

“I do. Doc Amari, over at the Memory Den. Might be able to do something with the cybernetics we pulled out of Kellogg. Or might know someone who can,” Nick explains.

“Knight Weiss...I still think we should have the Brotherhood scientists…”

MacCready hadn't even noticed Danse. Looks like a piece of furniture, standing in the corner, out of the way. Out of his power armor, he's much smaller than MacCready expected. Well, he's still taller than MacCready, just as tall as Nick, barrel chested, with big arms and shoulders. The flannel he wears pulls a little at the buttons. But Weiss stands a few inches taller. In the armor Danse looked impenetrable. Out of it, he's only human.

“Danse, I told you,” Weiss says, a softness in his voice. “The Brotherhood will want to charge right in, guns blazing, once they know.” He shuffles his bare feet. 

MacCready tries to get a look at Weiss’ eyes, see if he's high or not. This early in the morning? Maybe not. Or maybe Danse can at least be a good influence on that front. But MacCready will never trust the man. He’ll never trust anyone from the Brotherhood. Not after what he's seen, what he knows. They would have killed that boy from 101, if it suited them. They’ll eradicate everyone in the Commonwealth for less than that.

“My son is there, Danse. I have to get him out.” Weiss steps away from Nick and back towards Danse, trying to draw him out of the corner and back into the center of the room. He takes both of Danse’s hands in his, running his thumbs over top. Danse tries to draw back, but stops half way, letting Weiss fidget. “Think about it, really think. He’ll be in danger if the Brotherhood get to the Institute first.”

Danse grunts in reply, but seems almost placated. “We can help you,” he pleads.

“You can help me,” Weiss corrects.

Piper comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed and her hair dry. Weiss should probably get moving on finding clothes, unless he's planning on heading to Goodneighbor naked. For all MacCready knows, he is.

“What's going on with you two?” Piper narrows her eyes. 

At first MacCready thinks she's talking about Weiss and Danse. But she's not. She looks at him, then Nick, then back at him.

“What do you mean?” Nick responds, but his broad smile gives everything away. MacCready wants to melt into the floorboards. Not really because he's ashamed. No. Just, he didn't think that they were so obvious. They're just standing. Not even particularly close to one another.

Piper puts one hand on her hip. “You can't keep anything from me, de-tec-tive!” She smiles. “Don't you think he's a little…”

“Don't say it Piper…” Nick warns. But MacCready’s not entirely sure what Piper is about to say that Nick doesn't want her to.

She taps her finger against her bottom lip. “You know what, never mind. You two boys have fun.” Clapping MacCready on the shoulder, she drops the subject. Without thinking, MacCready pops his collar up to shield his face. If Piper knows, she's sure to tell Weiss. Forget Piper, NICK is sure to tell Weiss too.

“Okay, okay, we’ll wait, then. Until we find your son. But remember, we can help get him out, we have the resources,” Danse finishes.

Weiss won't let it go, “You can help.” At least he hasn't been turned to the Brotherhood side. “Okay!” Weiss claps his hands together. Thankfully the towel around his waist doesn't slide off. “To Goodneighbor, then.”

“You need pants, Weiss,” Nick sighs.

\--

Goodneighbor will never feel like home to MacCready, though it's maybe the place he's stayed the longest since coming to the Commonwealth. The little homestead back in the Capital? That's not home either. Once, ten years ago, when the boy from 101 came through, he’d smiled at MacCready, said they weren't so different. He’d pushed bleached-blond hair away from his sunglasses and said they were both underground-children. The world above would always think them odd because of it. MacCready told him to f-off and finish what he came to do, if it was so f-ing important. It wasn't until MacCready left Little Lamplight that he could start to understand what 101 had meant.

Mayor Hancock spots Weiss from his balcony up above, waving his arms wide so the vaultie will see him. Weiss waves back with just as much enthusiasm. Of course they know each other, of course. MacCready is quickly learning not to be surprised by anything Weiss does or anyone he knows. 

Next to him, Piper rolls her eyes, “Oh, here we go.”

Weiss is clearly intent on waiting for Hancock to come down. He and Nick smoke while MacCready, Piper, and Danse just wait.

“Did you have to crawl back inside your toaster?” Piper pokes Danse in the middle of his chest piece, it's about as far up as she can reach without stretching too much.

Danse frowns, “We had to walk through a hostile, unfortified city ruin to reach Goodneighbor, which itself is filled with characters of ill repute and questionable allegiances.”

“Yeah, but they’re more likely to be suspicious of you because of the armor, rather than not,” Piper points out, “you could have gotten out of it at the gate.”

“No,” Danse doesn't argue with her further.

Bouncing out the door, Hancock heads straight to Weiss and Nick, reaching up and clapping them each on the shoulder in turn. Smiling broadly he asks what’s brought them back. MacCready’s attention snaps back to Danse.

“Weiss should be more careful…”

“What?” MacCready questions. He's not going to let Piper have all the fun of derailing Danse’s misguided ideology. “With Hancock? Pillar of Goodneighbor’s community? Upstanding junkie ghoul? Seriously, the man has done more for the Commonwealth than the Brotherhood could do in a hundred years of occupation.”

“I find that difficult to believe. In the Capital…”

“I know all about the Capital, toaster.”

Danse just stares at him for a moment. MacCready stares back. He still doesn't think he recognizes Danse from anywhere. 

“Okay, let's get moving,” Weiss announces. Looks like Hancock already went back inside.

Refusing to hang back with Piper and MacCready, Danse quickens his pace to catch up with Weiss. He makes an awful racket at it, what with the hydraulics in his armor bleating away. 

“Why do you think he's here?” MacCready asks Piper.

“Same reason you are,” she covers her face with her hand. “Weiss has a weakness for strays. Better yet if they're pretty strays.”

MacCready shoves her lightly in the shoulder. In response she barks a laugh. Piper’s got a sister, she must recognize that he means it affectionately, sorta. “Plenty of mercs with sob stories prettier than me.”

She taps her forefinger against her lip, “True, true. Probably not any Paladins prettier than Danse, though. Hoo-boy. Out of his armor you almost don't notice he's a shitbag.” She pauses, “No, no, you still totally notice.”

They’re unaccosted the rest of their way to the Memory Den, though plenty of people stare. MacCready assumes it’s got to be on account of Danse, who can’t help but stick out. The only other visible weirdos in their pack are Nick and Weiss, and Goodneighbor seems to adore them. 

Once they’re inside the, frankly plush, establishment, Weiss manages to coax Danse out of his armor. He snickers, because Weiss is sure bent on getting Danse out of more than just that, but MacCready’s got no idea how successful he’s been. He also doesn’t know where that leaves Piper, but that seems so, so not his business right now.

“Danse, it’s expensive already for them to maintain this carpet. Don’t worry, no one will mess with your armor.”

Sighing, Danse hits the release and crawls out the back of the suit. He’s exceedingly careful to seal it back up before he’ll leave it well alone, running his fingers over the surface, maybe checking for new dents. Nothing can wreck that appliance though. 

Nick is already talking to a dark-haired woman in a lab coat. She must be Dr. Amari. Polite as Nick is, he introduces everyone. “This is Vishnu Weiss, it’s his son we’re trying to find.”

Weiss shakes her hand firmly.

“And you must know Piper Wright, if only by reputation. Robert MacCready, and Danse.” He points each one of them out. “I know we’re sort of a large party, but we’re hoping to find some answers and get to work. Robert, can I see your pack?”

Piper raises her eyebrow at that. She already knows, got them figured out. So MacCready doesn’t know why she’s insisting on making a show about it.

MacCready swings his pack around so he can unzip it. Nick made him carry the stuff they pulled out of Kellogg. Though at one point the components were covered in guts, they’re all shiny chrome now, looking real high end. The Institute really invested in the guy. Too bad none of that could stand up to Weiss’ rage. 

“We pulled this out of Kellogg, think it will work with the lounger?”

“A cybernetic brain augmenter? Hm...let’s go downstairs,” Amari turns the object over in her hands.

The six of them pile down the narrow staircase to Amani’s laboratory. There are two more loungers down here and a host of medical equipment. MacCready doesn’t know what this lab is for. He doesn’t really want to know. 

Never having the caps to spare, he hasn’t tried the loungers himself. Remembering might not be the healthiest thing for him, either. He remembers plenty of the good and bad on his own. And it feels...unfair to Lucy to try and bring her back, even if it’s not real. But he’d be lying if he said he’d never thought of it. Maybe that first time they kissed, right before he turned sixteen. He’d said he’d wait for her. That he’d come back to the cave entrance on her sixteenth birthday. She’d ended up leaving with him, tears stinging the corners of her eyes, she could give up the months she had left at home, if it meant leaving together.

“Yes, I think it will work. But it will need to be attached to a brain in order for the lounger to recognize it. Valentine, I think you would be most suitable. It should be easy enough to attach…”

“I’ll do it,” Nick starts taking off his coat. 

“Wait!” MacCready hates himself for saying anything, because now everyone is staring at him. “You’re just going to...attach part of Kellogg’s brain to Nick’s brain? This is crazy, what if it like...what if it’s a trap of some kind?”

“I do have some idea of the repercussions,” Amari’s voice is droll, “but there simply isn’t another option for accessing the data. It won’t function otherwise.”

“Gimme a sec, won’t you, doc?” Nick grabs MacCready by the arm, guiding him back out of the lab and into the stairwell. 

MacCready feels like an idiot for saying anything, but really, no one was going to mention what a bad idea it was to plug a piece of a murderer into Nick’s brain? Sure, everyone in that room had killed someone, but not like Kellogg killed people. Not like that at all. They were good people, by and large, in a terrible world. They weren’t sadists. They were trying to survive. 

“Robert, I don’t think you should watch. I don’t want you to see me with Kellogg installed.” Nick keeps his hand on his arm, dropping it lower until they hold hands. “It’s okay, though. I need to do this so we can help Weiss. And if we know how to get into the Institute, maybe we can really change the Commonwealth for the better.”

“Of course,” MacCready counters. “But I don’t see why you need to be the one assuming all the risk?” 

Nick smiles, “You’re trying to come up with another plan. I can see the gears turning.”

“Oh, come on, is that supposed to be a set up? I can literally see-”

Nick cuts him off, kissing him briefly before pulling back. There’s a normalcy to it. And MacCready realizes, this is what they’re going to do now. What they have to do to survive. Hold hands, kiss in hallways, and alleys, and bombed out buildings before one of them is forced into a position where they have to take on a risk that looks insurmountable. This is what they’re going to do. MacCready squeezes Nick’s hand.

“Okay, Nick. I’ll wait out here. If I watch, I won’t be able to keep quiet. I know that much.”

“Good.” He kisses MacCready again before turning to re-enter the lab.

MacCready sits on the stairs, twining his fingers together and hoping for the best. Resting his chin on his hands, he waits. After only a few minutes, the door opens again, but this time it’s Danse.

“They told me to wait outside too.” His hands are limp at his sides.

MacCready laughs, Danse just looks so sour at being excluded. “You tried to say something too?”

“There’s so much that we don’t know about how those loungers work. Plugging in the synth was an acceptable solution. Putting Knight Weiss at risk, I couldn’t stand by and say nothing.”

“You call him that in bed too?” MacCready leans back against the stairs behind him. Having Danse around is a good distraction. Gives him someone to mess with rather than just worrying about Nick.

Danse’s face turns red. Then he runs his fingers through his dark hair, once, twice. “We’re not, nothing, no.”

MacCready rolls his eyes. “He tries it with everyone. He might not mean anything by it, if you’re not interested, just tell him.” 

Danse is obviously interested. “I’m his sponsor. It’s not appropriate.”

“This world isn’t appropriate, Danse.”

“I suppose you and I have at least one thing we agree upon, then.”

That makes MacCready wish he had just kept his mouth shut.


	12. My Mistakes in Practice are Always my Best Ideas in Theory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that from here forward there are Dangerous Minds spoilers.

Valentine doesn't know how to describe it. Weightless, maybe, as if looking through a frosted glass, too. Floaty and indistinct. He can hear voices. First Amari, asking if Weiss can hear her, if the lounger works. Weiss responds, “Yes, I think so.”

In this set up the Doc has going, Valentine is just a conduit, a material anchor to carry Kellogg’s memories, make them stand up and dance. He's not sure he should be seeing or hearing anything. It's disorienting. Honestly? He'd rather just conk out through the whole damn thing. Would be easier than this strange in-between state.

He’s in a body that’s too small, cramped. Sitting up in bed, there's a female voice, not Amari, someone else. And a man speaking over top, remembering, it’s Kellogg, unmistakably so.

Though he has no digestive system, Valentine feels nauseous. But even if he could, he wouldn't stop the flow of memories, not as Weiss marches through, trespassing across flickers of thought. There’s a pressure, all over Valentine’s consciousness, as Weiss walks forward.

The feeling of smallness dissipates, Valentine feeling full-sized again. His hands are warm. A baby is crying. He wants to hold it. Why? He and Jennifer. But that wasn't him. That was other-Valentine. The one who always shares his mind. Not like this interloper, not like Kellogg. Maybe Robert was right. Maybe this was too risky. But getting into the Institute, that's worth risking one broken down prototype, right? No matter how charming Valentine knows he is.

Gunfire. Bang, bang, bang. And a deep sadness.

Valentine wants off this damn ride as soon as possible. Even if the next scene is quiet conversation, an exchange of caps. He misses someone. Jennifer? Robert? So deeply. Like an endless void. But he forces. No, Kellogg forces the wound closed. So it's not Jennifer or Robert, or any in the string of people Valentine has offered himself to. It's Kellogg’s pain seeping through the stitches.

Gen 1s always smell of oil. The plastics get too hot against the scorching metal.

The next memory is close to the surface. Ripples spreading across the surface. Valentine and Weiss are starting to come up for air. He doesn't know if they've found anything. Not with the film over his eyes. How does he peel it off?

Weiss is screaming. A name. Nate. Nate. Nate.

Nate.

A quiet home. Father wants him back. It's time. Kellogg knew this day was sure to come. The boy looks nothing like Weiss. But why would he? Valentine can see Shaun’s face so clearly. With a flash they’re gone.

“Teleportation, that's how they do it.” Weiss is already crawling out of his lounger. 

Valentine's body still feels like lead. Patiently, he waits for Amari to remove what's left of Kellogg. Takes her sweet fucking time.

“Fuck, FUCK,” Weiss turns, ready to throw his fist at the wall. Piper grabs at his forearm. She's not strong enough to stop him, but the touch is enough for Weiss to hesitate, to come to his senses. “I need a fucking cigarette.”

What he needs to quit is the tin in his pocket. The pills rattle.

Danse comes into the lab, Robert on his heels. “What is happening?” Danse demands, his hands balled into fists.

“Nothing,” Weiss is quick to deflect, uncurling his hand. “Just. I don't feel like we’re any closer. The synths...they use teleportation.”

With attention on Weiss, no one pays Robert much mind. “Are you okay?” His hand reaches forward, towards Valentine, then draws back.

“Yeah, never better,” really, he feels like a drowning man starting to breathe again. 

Amari finishes up with severing the connection to Kellogg’s memories. “So there is nothing?” She dusts at her lab coat as she stands erect.

“Well, there is one lead, something the synth said to Kellogg. A scientist. Virgil, a defector,” Weiss unties his hair, letting it fall around his shoulders before putting it back up. “He's hiding. Somewhere called, ‘the Glowing Sea.’” 

Their conversation continues on, Robert’s dropping below, just for Valentine. “Don't lie to me,” Robert's mouth drops at the corners. “You look like shit.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel wanted.”

Their hands brush against each others’ as Valentine climbs out of the lounger. Does more than anything else has so far to get Valentine to think clearly again, the gentle warmth of Robert’s hand that is gone almost as soon as it’s detected.

“So, say this Virgil does exist,” Piper lifts up her hands, “how do we make it through the Glowing Sea? Nothing can survive the radiation.”

“Rad-x, some power armor...it's...doable,” Weiss leans against the wall, towering over Piper. He hates the power armor, told Valentine as much. It doesn't suit him, playing sardine. Nothing safe seems to suit Weiss, or so it seems. Valentine would say that he’d addicted to the adrenaline, but really? He’s just an asshole who doesn’t care if he dies. This isn’t Weiss’ home, and it never will be.

Danse nods, “I should come with you. You shouldn't go alone.”

“Why?” Piper bites, “so you can inform on us to the Brotherhood? So you can bring Virgil into the fold?”

“No, because it's dangerous. Knight Weiss-”

“Oh, lay off the ‘Knight’ crap. Whatever, it's up to Vishnu anyway.” She throws her hands up, exasperated. 

Valentine agrees, though. Danse should be cut off as soon as possible. Whatever his motivations for even being here might be, and they might not be entirely divorced from his personal desires, the man will tell the Brotherhood everything. His loyalties are not in question. That much was obvious from the start. Weiss may have big plans for Danse. Or maybe he’s just looking for a particularly challenging lay. In either case, this isn’t something they can waste time on. Danse isn’t worth it. He’s just not.

“I can go,” Valentine offers. Robert will probably try and stop him. But probably not here in front of the others, after already having one outburst. “The radiation doesn’t affect me. We put Weiss in power armor. And just an IV of radaway when we make it back. He’s right, this is possible.” Does Valentine want to go crawling through the Glowing Sea, full of fuck knows what sort of irradiated monster crap? On what could be a wild goose chase with Weiss? Not really. But would he rather go than have Danse? Sure.

“Right then,” Weiss comes off the wall. “The three of us go. Me, Valentine, Danse. It’s our best shot.”

Shit. This fucker.

“We don’t need the toaster.”

“I’m standing right here, synth.” Danse’s big paw is on Weiss’ shoulder, though he has to reach up a little to grab hold of it. Clearly, he’s not used to being shorter than anyone. Weiss’ hand grazes against Danse’s knuckles. 

“All three of us will go. It’ll be a bonding experience.” And that’s final. Clearly. “Let’s head back to Diamond City, we can kit up before heading out.”

Piper grumbles to herself. 

They barely make it out of the Memory Den before Robert is at his side, taking long strides to keep pace. “Are you going to be alright?”

“I wasn’t lying,” Valentine holds onto his cigarette. “The rads don’t affect me. I’ll be fine.”

“I mean about Danse?”

“Danse is harmless.”

Robert keeps his hands stuffed into his pockets. “His friends aren’t, though. He’d sell you out, what if he and Weiss-”

“Weiss is trying to change him. That much is clear. Can he succeed? I don’t know.” Valentine sighs, “Probably not. But I’m not in any danger from him.”

\--

They make it back to Diamond City in time for dinner. Weiss carts them all up to the noodle bar, dropping caps with ease. He’s good at talking others out of theirs and spends his own freely with his friends. There’s not enough room at the bar, not with the dinner crowd coming in. Valentine takes a bowl and stands just to the side of the bar, intending to give his portion to Robert, if he wants it.

Robert proves adept at eating standing up, twirling his plastic fork in the bowl. Steam rises against his face as he shoves the mess of noodles into his face. He’s too busy to talk, so Valentine just waits. He heats his hand to keep his bowl warm.

Piper steps in beside them. She’s not as graceful, wanting to both eat and talk with her hands. But she can’t really do both at the same time, so she just sort of flails around her fork. “What do you think of this plan, Robert?” She says his name with a mocking familiarity. Of course she would be the first to notice the change in Valentine’s relationship with Robert, and the last person to cut them some slack. 

Swallowing his noodles down, Robert shrugs his shoulders. “We need the scientist. I guess. But I’m not sure it’s a three person job.” 

“I’m not sure there’s any job for the Brotherhood here,” Piper quips with her mouth full. Her nuka is on the bar. She grabs at it. 

“It will be fine,” Valentine assures. Having everyone turn on Weiss, because he refuses to turn on Danse, who might in the end turn on all of them, isn’t going to get this show on the road any faster. And the general thrust of what they’re accomplishing together is still worth the effort. 

Robert finishes his bowl, sliding it back across the counter. With a big swig, he finishes off his cola too. Valentine hold out his bowl, hoping that he doesn’t have to say more than that, and Robert will just take it. Robert raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t refuse, taking the bowl and the fork.

“You two are too fucking cute,” Piper’s mouth is still full of noodles.

“Val!” Weiss calls, “we’re leaving in thirty, okay?”

Valentine grumbles at first. They should wait until morning. The Glowing Sea is far enough away that it’ll take them two or three days to reach the edge. And that’s assuming no surprises along the route. And then who knows how long it’ll take to find signs of this Virgil character, if he exists at all. There’s absolutely no reason they should leave now, as the sun is starting to set. But he’s known Weiss long enough that he’s resigned himself to this whim of his. Never waiting. Not like Valentine needs the rest, but…

“Okay,” he calls back before returning his attention to Robert, “you about done?” Rushing Robert through a meal is the second to last thing he wants to do. But the last thing he wants to do is leave the city without the chance to talk to him privately. And they can’t do it out here, where Piper might want to be involved in everything, if only because she’s trying pointedly to ignore the escalating situation between Weiss and Danse. Valentine knows they weren’t actually emotionally involved, Piper and Weiss. It was just supposed to be fun, casual. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t heading in that direction. Or that Piper wouldn’t have her concerns as a friend. She’s not the type to hold a grudge either, but she is the type to fight for those she holds dear. 

“Um, yeah,” he tilts the bowl to his lips, swallowing down the last of the broth. “I’m done.”

Valentine waves to Piper before he turns, heading back to the agency. While they walk, he frees the front door key from his ring. The metal warms in his hand. That at least reminds him to redistribute his heating again. Once inside, he locks the door behind them. Holding up the key, he offers it to Robert, just like he did the noodles earlier. Because this gesture is practical, it makes sense. “I don’t know how long we’ll be gone, but you should keep this. I don’t have another copy, so just, take mine. Stay here.”

“Nick, I, I shouldn’t.” But Robert’s fingers are already wrapped around Valentine’s, around the key.

“Yes, you should.” He lets go of the key, leaving it in Robert’s hand. Robert takes it, sliding it onto his own ring.

“Thank you.”

“Ellie comes in at nine, you should probably stay out of her way, or she’ll try and put you to work.” Valentine drops his hands to Robert’s waist, holding onto his hips. With what little time they have left, he just wants to back him into the wall, pin him there, steal his air and make it his own. But Valentine just holds still. “And take care of yourself.”

“I should be telling you that. You’re the one who’s stuck with Weiss.”

“True,” Valentine smiles. Tilting his head down, he kisses Robert, lets it drag. He likes the feel of Robert’s broken teeth against his lips, biting down in soft depressions. “Hm, I still have twenty minutes.”

“Won’t Weiss murder you if you’re late?”

“And I’ll murder him if I don’t get to have you before leaving. So, where does that leave us?”

He does end up backing Robert into the wall, pulling at the front of his slacks until the buckle comes loose. Rasping against Robert’s throat, he offers, “When I get back, we’ll do this properly. I’ll take my time with you.” He grabs at the backs of Robert’s thighs. Valentine’s body doesn’t have super-robot-strength or anything. At least, he’s never found that to be the case. But he is stronger than a human of his same build would be. With the leverage provided by the wall at Robert’s back, Valentine lifts Robert’s legs off the ground, wrapping them around his hips.

They’re still covered in entirely too much clothing, but there literally isn’t the time. “Put your arms around my shoulders.”

Robert listens, anchoring them both in place. When Valentine breathes, his chest presses into Robert’s, he can feel the vibrations of the human’s breathing pick up, skittering everywhere. 

It’s a tricky thing, working his soft hand between their bodies to pull out Robert’s erection, but they manage. Robert keeps his arms in place, but curls his wrists under the collar of Valentine’s coat, brushing his fingers against remaining skin first, before dipping inside his neck. His fingers rake against Valentine’s cord. He shouldn’t be able to feel this, but he does. 

Quick and messy, Robert comes between their bodies, panting praises of “Good, good, so good. Nick, oh.” His head bouncing against the wall as he squirms. One wrong move and he could tear Valentine with that hand inside his neck. But he doesn’t, maintaining enough control. Strange, Valentine thinks, to feel so vulnerable and to like it. 

They come down together, Valentine lowering Robert’s feet back to the floor as the heady feel of accomplishment starts to clear. Robert’s so expressive. With pants and moans and clawing noises. Perfect, just perfect. He doesn’t talk so much otherwise, but Valentine realizes that between him and Piper and Weiss, Robert probably feels crowded out. Valentine tries to make space.

“I should go, before Weiss pops a gasket.”

“Your shirt is covered in cum,” Robert drags his finger through the wet patch at the front of Valentine’s button down.

“Right, right.” He has to change in a hurry. Luckily, it hasn’t soaked through his singlet. Tossing on another shirt, Valentine turns to find Robert inspecting his trench. 

“It’s alright. Doesn’t look like any got on it.” He holds out the coat at arm’s length for Valentine to take. 

Valentine folds his coat over his arm. Rocking back against the client chair, Robert waits.  
Yeah, it may be strange for him, living here among Valentine’s things. But Valentine doesn’t want it to be strange, to be foreign. Were circumstances different, maybe he wouldn’t be so open to having a lover stay in his agency. Maybe it’s a terrible idea. But it’s the best one they’ve got. And he’s not going to make Robert spend the caps on a motel room. Or worse, not spend them. So, yeah, this is how they’re going to proceed. 

“Make sure you come back,” Robert finally says. 

“Wouldn’t dare cross you, Robert.”

\--

Valentine is late, Weiss and Danse already waiting for him at the gate. Keeping his rifle slung around his back and his hands in his pockets, he offers up no excuses. There are none he's willing to share.

“We’d better get moving then,” Weiss exhales smoke, aiming it away from Danse. “Get in as many miles as we can.” They've done plenty of walking already today, between Goodneighbor and back. Valentine’s synthetic body has been through even more. Reaching behind his head, he brushes against where he was plugged into Kellogg. It doesn't feel any different.


	13. There's your past and my past but the two never really meet up for drinks

Ellie acts less surprised than she maybe should be when MacCready comes down the stairs in his boxers. Wait, she's early. Nick said she doesn't get in until nine. Oh, no, she's not early, he realizes. MacCready slept longer than he does normally. Well, the bed smells like Nick in a comforting sort of way, cigarettes and silicon, and there's a roof over his head and no where he immediately needs to be. So maybe it's not so surprising he slept until ten-past-nine instead of jolting awake at the first sign of daylight.

“I'll make extra coffee, then,” she smiles.

MacCready isn't sure if he should say anything else, so he settles on, “thanks,” before slipping into the bathroom.

Looking into the mirror, MacCready sees the dark circles around his eyes are lighter, less puffy. Though he still looks sort of disheveled. His hair needs to be cut and he hasn't trimmed his beard in days. There’s just been so much going on.

On the other side of the door he can hear Ellie hum to herself as she paces the agency. Why wasn't she surprised to find MacCready here? MacCready knows he's got to stop feeling so...concerned. He and Nick talked about this. There's no one else. Not now. But there could be. If Nick changes his mind.

He splashes water on his face, unwilling to take the time to shower even though he probably still smells of sex. The whole office probably does, even though he's the only one who was sweating, coming. He doesn't mean to feel so anxious. He grabs his shirt and slacks from the hooks in the bathroom, pulling them on.

There’s a cup of coffee on Nick’s desk, closer to the client side and obviously meant for MacCready. Ellie already has another mug in her hand. They're robin’s-egg blue and perfectly intact. Something about that makes MacCready smile. There are grounds floating at the top of the mug, but there always are. The Eastern Seaboard ran out of coffee filters before they ran out of vacuum packed beans. So now they all have to improvise. 

“Thanks, Ellie,” the hot coffee feels good going down. MacCready doesn't sit because Ellie’s not sitting and that would be strange. After he's done with his cup, he’ll go visit Piper. At least she might be willing to commiserate. Or at least complain more about Danse. So they at least got that in common.

Ellie looks up from the file she's reading, “Did Nick leave you his key? There was a note about it.”

“Ah, yes,” he takes another sip, “Does he, you know, leave the key often…” He tries to hide his embarrassment behind his mug.

She laughs at that, putting her clipboard down before picking up another. “No, I can't say that he does.”

“Right,” MacCready rushes through the rest of his cup, though under different circumstances he wouldn't mind savoring it. After all, Nick said to stay out of Ellie’s way. He can't possibly do that here, unless he's about to stay in bed all day. “I should get going...Piper…”

“I'm not your babysitter,” she shrugs her shoulders.

Right.

He thinks about picking up some food on his way to Publick Occurrences. The marketplace is already coming to life, vendors setting out their wares for the day. Panhandlers cycling through their prayers. It would have been so easy for that to be MacCready’s fate. He still doesn't understand how any of them from back home survived. Some of them didn't.

In the end, he buys nothing, rushing to Piper’s and knocking at her door. He waits with his hands shoved into his duster. There's a chance she isn't up yet, or isn't home. Not everyone is inclined to get up as early as MacCready is, though by now it must be half-past nine.

Piper opens the door in a robe and socked feet, “MacCready?”

“I'm so sorry. I must have woken you?” He honestly didn't mean to disturb her. Maybe he can go to the Dugout, nurse a cola until it's late enough to switch to beer. He has some caps back at the agency, tucked away in his pack.

Piper waves him off. “I've been editing since eight. With Valentine and Weiss out of town, I just wasn't expecting visitors.” She steps back to let him in.

Publick Occurrences is warm. The stacks of old newspaper must insulate the walls. Piper drinks from a steaming mug. Looks like tea instead of coffee. When she sips, it's noisy. She motions to one of the chairs for MacCready to sit. Like Weiss, she's always in motion. He can see it clearly, why Weiss and Piper fit together. Why Weiss and Nick do too. Where he can't connect the dots is between him and Weiss. 

Him and Nick? Well, he's not sure there's any explaining that. And that's alright.

He takes the offered chair, pulling one of the papers off the closest stack. If Piper’s working, he shouldn't disturb her. But he's definitely more comfortable here than he was with Ellie over at the agency. So this is a good decision.

From the pages of faded Bugles, he reads about inflation. How pre-war paper money became worthless, except in those thick stacks you can find in cash registers, even now. Wads thousands of dollars thick. He reads about the price of oil. He reads about what caused this world to die, sure as the bombs that fell over Boston, New York, D.C.

In this respect, at least, he and Piper are similar. They only know this world. “Do you ever think, about before the bombs?” he asks.

Piper stops scratching down her alterations. Sticking her pen behind her ear, she sighs. “Sometimes, I don't know. I have more, since Vishnu came.”

“I knew another vault dweller once,” MacCready winces. But maybe it'll be good to talk. “He wasn't much like Weiss though.”

“What was he like?” Piper leans forward in her chair, wrapping her fingers around her pen.

MacCready shrugs, “he was young. But I was even younger, so I thought he was, I don't know, mature. But he was sort of an idiot too. He always wore these sunglasses, even though we were underground. And-”

“Wait, why were you underground?” Piper starts scribbling. He's going to end up one of her stories. At first, his chest tightens at the idea, a sort of low, rolling panic. But he pushes it back down. “Could you maybe not...write about this?”

Piper drops her pen, “Maybe...why?”

“I just don't want to be drawing attention to myself. You know what? Never mind.” He resolves to shut his mouth.

Piper squints at him, but leaves him be. She goes back to editing. The minutes tick by until it's well past ten. She doesn't push him any further, choosing instead to work towards an achievable goal. Or maybe she thinks he’ll crack under the strain of silence.

“Okay,” she sticks her pen behind her ear. “This is what's going to happen.” She slams her open hands flat on the table. Nat opens the door, looks inside at her sister, and decides to stay outside instead. There's a barely audible “hmmf” from Nat before the door slams shut. “I'm going to get dressed. You're going to get your pack and your gun. And we are going to Sanctuary.”

MacCready looks up from a Bugle dated June 10, 2076. It's virtually falling apart in his hands, with the way the paper cracks. “What?”

“Preston sent a message with a courier. Got here while we were in Goodneighbor. Something about a settlement he wants to check out. Technically, he wanted Weiss to check it out with him. But what, with Weiss indisposed for the foreseeable future-”

“They're coming back. Soon,” MacCready insists, though he's got no idea of knowing. 

“Anyway, I say we got help the illustrious Mr. Garvey out ourselves. What do you say?”

MacCready isn't one to say no when it comes to getting out of Diamond City. And it'll be something to keep his mind off of Nick and Weiss, and Danse’s questionable loyalties. 

“Okay, sure, we’ll go.”

“Good,” Piper takes off, back upstairs.

\--

He leaves a note for Nick, in case they beat him and Piper back. Doubtful, though he's not entirely sure where this settlement Garvey’s interested in is. They at least know where they're going, or, rather, Garvey knows. Weiss and Danse may as well be chasing shadows across the irradiated plains.

Scratched out in tight letters:

Nick-  
Gone with Piper and Garvey to investigate a settlement. Should be back soon.

He starts writing “Ma-” as his signature, but crosses it out before he gets any further.

Robert.

Instead of leaving it on the desk, where Ellie might see, he sticks it on Nick’s pillow. He doesn't know what to do with the key. Ellie has one, sure, but this one is Nick's, and if he gets back he may need it. In the end, MacCready keeps it, sure that they’ll be back first.

\--

When they enter Sanctuary, Sturges runs up to greet them. His broad hands are covered in grease. He apologizes, wiping them against his coveralls. Right away he asks Piper if she brought anything from the list.

Before leaving Diamond City, Piper had failed to mention that MacCready was meant to be half a pack Brahmin as well. Convenient, leaving that out, until she fobbed the heavy pack onto him to carry all the way north. 

Unlike when MacCready last came through, with Nick and Weiss, Sturges seems to be in good spirits, his accent as thick as his smile. Last time, he wouldn't be caught within thirty yards of them. Maybe it's that he wants the salvage, but MacCready doesn't think that's it.

Sturges claps Piper and MacCready on the shoulder in turn before departing with the entire spare pack, still rifling through its contents.

“What was that about?” He asks Piper.

She shrugs, “Vishnu collected a bunch of things he needed. Left them off at the paper. Figured I'd bring them by.”

“No, I mean, last time I was here, Sturges wouldn't even come close to us. Garvey gave us the list. I didn't even meet the guy directly. Seemed kind of surly then.”

“Ooohhh,” Piper elongates her vowel. “That, right. I mean, you've noticed how...friendly Vishnu is, right?”

MacCready shrugs, “Sure, I guess. You said he likes taking in strays.”

“Pretty strays,” Piper corrects, holding up one finger. “So, fresh out of the vault, what does our grieving widower do?”

“What?” MacCready asks.

“Sturges. He does Sturges. It did not go well, is my understanding. Not everyone likes being led on like that,” she bites her bottom lip. “Vishnu, as you may have noticed, has moved on to...bigger and more household appliance-like things.”

“And what about you?” Honestly, the curiosity has been killing MacCready this whole time. Surprisingly, Piper doesn't slap him across the face for asking. She just sort of sighs like she’s tired.

“Listen, Vishnu isn't the easiest man to figure out. I'm not going to pretend that I have. But he can be fun. I'm not at risk the the way Sturges or Danse are.”

“What do you mean?” Because he's not going to parse this situation on his own. Not with the cryptic way Piper has started speaking, 

“Because in the middle of this night, Vishnu might be high as a kite, a total mess of a man, but he's never going to mistake me for Nate.”

MacCready drops the subject. He doesn't want to hear more. Garvey is coming up to meet them, just over the crest of the low hill.

“Piper! Good to see you.” Garvey wraps her in a comfortable hug, then offers his hand to MacCready once they're through. “Good to see you again, MacCready. Where’s Weiss?”

“Not coming. Indisposed,” Piper waves her hands, as if dismissing Weiss from existence. 

“He found something about his son?”

“Just a lead for now, he and Nick are chasing it down.”

MacCready recedes from the conversation. It's an easy thing to accomplish, given the company he's started to keep. The house the settlers were scrapping last time he came through is bare to the foundations. Several steel and wood panels are stacked up, ready to be pieced together into new walls. They're making remarkable progress here. He wants to be a part of it, maybe, if he can.

“Well, I would have liked to have him along,” Garvey smiles, “but I'm certainly happy to have you both. Anyway, have you heard of Covenant?”

Piper responds, “Yeah, real upstart of a settlement. I haven't gotten a chance to see it, yet. But it's supposed to be remarkably preserved. A real example of what the Commonwealth can accomplish, if people work together.”

Garvey nods, “I'd like to go check it out. Ask them some questions if they're amenable. They've had so much success, maybe I can learn something to apply to the Minutemen’s settlements?”

“Great, awesome,” Piper claps her hands together. “We’re in.”

MacCready doesn't object. This is a simple thing, but it’ll occupy his energy for a couple of days. The others have probably only just now reached the edge of the Glowing Sea. And while neither Piper nor Garvey are paying him directly, MacCready is sure that Weiss will cough up the caps later for any expenses he incurs helping them. Weiss gets back, MacCready gets paid...maybe just maybe, Nick could be open to helping him again. Maybe he stands a chance at Med-Tek. At least, this is closer than he's ever been.

“So, you wanna head out in the morning?” Piper asks MacCready, like his personal desires matter a bit in this situation.

“Sure,” he pulls his sniper rifle off his back. Sanctuary has enough heavy turrets to keep the residents safe. He doesn't anticipate having to defend himself while they're here. 

\--

Sturges eats dinner with them. He's as warm and welcoming as he was when they arrived. MacCready picks at his molerat stew, chewing heavily at tough chunks of savory meat coated in heavy gravy. Sticks between his teeth that way. As Piper makes conversation, MacCready tries to work it back out from his molars. 

His opinion of Weiss lowers somewhat, knowing that, despite his fondness for “picking up strays,” he would just as soon discard one he no longer finds amusing. Then again, maybe that means Nick is right, and Danse is less of a problem than MacCready thinks.

As they're climbing into their beds for the night, Piper has another question. But this time it's not about home. MacCready still worries she’ll use every scrap against him, somehow. Not because she’s cruel. He's even beginning to think that they’re friends, him and Piper. But because MacCready doesn't trust his own history, he worries. He knows, in an abstract sort of way, that he's a good man. That he at least tries to be a good man. But the reality of the Wasteland is that his actions, his decisions, don't always attest to the man he tries to be.

Life is just too hard. Maybe, though, that's a cop-out. Because plenty of people around MacCready have managed to be better than him.

“So, what is going on between you and Nick?” She asks. Otherwise the night air is quiet. Their beds are close together. The settlers have been trying to maximize their use of space while Sanctuary is under repair. MacCready and Piper share the room with a pile of stripped copper pipe, stacked up in the corner.

MacCready keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling. “I thought you had us figured out, Piper?”

“I'm not that presumptuous. So, come on, I've always wondered about him. He's such a charmer. Does the myth live up to expectation?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,”

“You know,” the smile in her voice is bright. “Is he a machine?”

MacCready groans.

\--

At the gates of Covenant, they're subjected to the SAFE test, to see if they're “the right sort,” to be admitted. That's enough to make Garvey frown. Clearly, this sort of judgement, pre-sorting on words rather than deeds, doesn't sit well with him. MacCready thinks he has a better chance of passing an oral exam, than if he were to be judged by his actions in this life.

Piper goes first, rattling off her answers, embellishing the details to maximum effect. “So, after assessing, I'd probably tie off the arm. You know, to keep it stable while I used the bone saw,” she grins.

Garvey’s eyes are always moving, from the heavy turrets perched on rooftops, to running his fingers along the exterior walls of the settlement. He appraises everything. Must be taking notes for what will and won't work at Sanctuary. What can be carried out at other settlements now aligned with the Minutemen’s cause. 

For the most part, MacCready just doesn't want to look suspicious. The guy testing them, Swanson, makes an offhand comment about a mercenary already inside, expressing distaste for him being too nosy, but still having passed the test. And the rule is, everyone who passes the test is allowed in. So, yeah, MacCready doesn't want to advertise that he's a merc, if it can be avoided.

“Preston,” Piper shouts for his attention, “you're up.” She hops up from the chair, adjusting her cap.

Garvey takes his turn, his answers direct and practical. Real Boy Scout, that one. But he lives up to it, a far better man than MacCready, that's for sure. “I would try to dissuade her from wanting him killed, there would have to be a better solution.”

MacCready knows all the questions now, having heard the test twice. He still can't figure what qualifies someone as “the right kind.” Because he knows both Piper and Garvey, for all their beautiful optimism about a better world, for all their selfless, heroic acts, for all their service to the barely perceptible society around them, they've killed. They’ve lied and cheated too. For the greater good. But no one can really say they're “right” anymore.

“And our last challenger approaches,” Swanson says good naturedly.

Taking his seat, MacCready already knows his answers, innocuous, not so pristine as to be taken for outright lies. He smiles too, when he can manage. If it suits him, if he has the energy, he can be quite charming. 

“Congratulations, you've made the baseball team. What position do you play?”

“Depends on the strengths and weaknesses of my teammates,” clasping his hands together behind his head, MacCready points his elbows out, leaning back in the chair. “Everything is relative.”


	14. Try to Put Together the Clues, You're Supposed to be a Detective

Between the raiders, mirelurks, and that random patch of concealed, half-frozen, swampy mud that Danse gets stuck in, it takes two and a half days to reach the edge of the Glowing Sea. They only stop once to rest. That's all that Weiss seems to need. And Danse? Well, he clearly doesn't want to be shown up by his fresh “recruit.”

Valentine wonders if Danse knows how frequently Weiss pops his tin open in his pocket, covertly swallows down mentats dry to keep going. If Danse can see the fraying edges of Weiss’ composure. It may well be that he's not even looking. 

“Wandering around in that soup after dark would be suicide and you know it, Weiss,” Valentine tosses down his pack. There's no shelter here, right at the outer rim of where Weiss’ pipboy geiger counter stops buzzing. But the ground is dry enough. And no human is going to fuck with two men in power armor and a synth. That's just not happening. So all they really need to worry about is skitterish wildlife. And even the yao gaui avoid the Sea. Deathclaws, though, are a different story.

Weiss grunts, he has to agree. Sometimes Weiss fights him on mere principle, because he likes fighting with words better than he likes that laser pistol. The gun is more a formality than anything. Maybe he likes getting close to their enemies so he can whisper into their ears.

Activating his power armor’s hydraulics, the back of Weiss’ suit splits apart, letting him crawl out of the metal cage. He stretches out, cracking his shoulders and neck in the process. The damn thing is too tight a fit for his height. But there's not an easy way to transport the tin can without actually wearing it. And the pretty vaultie might end up a decisively less-pretty ghoul if he doesn't use the suit.

Danse takes off his helmet, but not his suit. “You should have taken your modified frame from the Prydwen.” He shakes his head, like that'll change Weiss’ whole goddamn plan to conquer the Sea.

“I'm fine.” Weiss pulls at his ponytail, it's not quite long enough to come over his shoulder. “The Prydwen is in the complete opposite direction. It would have added a week to our trip.”

“But you would have been safe.” Danse is viciously anti-synth, closed minded, and a bit dull, but his concern for Weiss, specifically, is honest.

Weiss closes out the conversation, “Doesn't matter.”

Sometimes Valentine is half convinced Weiss wants to die. That he never wants to find Shaun either, because he's fully convinced that Weiss wouldn't know what the fuck to do with a child. Even if that child is his own son. Reading between the lines, Valentine knows Shaun is Weiss’ concession, not his celebration. Why he wants to find the kid now? Valentine can only guess. Maybe because his love for Nate still burns, causing his skin to splinter and crack. These other men and women he sleeps with are only balms. Danse will be no different. Only, eventually, there will be nothing of Weiss left to pull from the fire.

Weiss looks at his pipboy, checking the time. “The sun is up in six hours. We’ll move then.” Fiddling some more with the computer on his wrist, he sets an alarm. Valentine could have done that. He’ll have to keep watch through the darkness anyway.

“Come on, you too, Danse,” Weiss unties his boots before toeing them off. “If we’re going to stop, you might as well sleep too.” From his pack he pulls a rolled woven blanket.

“I'm not tired. I can keep first watch,” Danse insists.

Valentine corrects, “Bullshit. If you haven't noticed, I'm steel and silicone, what's left of me. You're all fleshy bits. Which means I keep all watches.”

“Oh, I've noticed, “ Danse seethes. Almost three days traveling and his discomfort is still tangible. Valentine can almost taste it, wafting off Danse in waves. And Valentine can’t technically taste fucking anything. 

“Danse, come on,” Weiss pleads. But his pleading always hides his utter confidence. “It's getting cold.”

Grunting, Danse unlatches his suit as well. He's much better than Weiss at climbing out the back. More experienced.

The two humans end up under the blanket together, but at opposite ends, at least for the start. Valentine sits on his bag to keep his ass off the ground. When he finishes his pack of cigarettes, he considers trying to sneak out Weiss’ box to start on. But it's buried somewhere in Weiss’ bag, which he's decided to use as a pillow. Normally, that wouldn't be so much of a deterrent, but Danse slips closer and closer to Weiss as the hours pass. The Paladin isn't brave enough, or, more accurately, isn't reading Weiss’ signals clearly enough, to put his arm around Weiss. To get as close as Weiss is trying to coax. The smug bastard is making Danse chase after him, at least a little. They're nearly nose to nose. By the end of this trip, Valentine is certain Weiss will have fucked him.

Weiss doesn't sleep the full six hours. Valentine isn't surprised. The cycle of his doses wasn't really right to sleep. But they're so close to having answers now. Feels like they’re almost making progress towards breaching the Institute.

“How's it going?” Weiss plops himself down next to Valentine, leaving Danse to curl up in the empty space where Weiss just vacated. Maybe only when Weiss is gone does Danse think he's within reach.

“You know,” Valentine tilts his head, “Nothing like watching starlight against the biggest cloud of radiation on the Eastern Seaboard. Gimme a cigarette, won't you?”

Weiss puts the first stick between his lips, lights it, then takes it out of his mouth to pass to Valentine. The paper is slightly wet from his saliva, but Valentine can only see it, not feel. While Valentine puffs, Weiss lights a second for himself.

“Do you think he's in there?”

“Virgil?” Valentine asks.

“Yeah.”

Valentine shrugs, “We don't have anymore leads. We’ve got to try.”

They're silent for several minutes before Weiss starts up again. “Danse is a good man, you know? Just, I think he was afraid. That he's still afraid, of things he doesn't understand. And the Brotherhood, they tried to tell him the world is easy, simple. I think he finds comfort in that.”

Dissuading Weiss will be near impossible, but Valentine has to try. “He's a narrow-minded bigot, and you know it. Only, he's got a pretty face, a nice ass. You’ll be bored with him in a few weeks,” Valentine blows smoke out. “Just like the others.”

Weiss shakes his head, “You're wrong.” His cigarette is only half done when he puts it out against the bottom of his boot.

“You'll never admit that I'm right,” Valentine pauses. “What do you even think is the best case scenario here? You turn him against everything the Brotherhood believes, everything he believes, with the power of your magical cock? Then you two live happily ever after in some run down settlement with mismatched curtains and chipped china? This isn't going to happen, Weiss, and you know it.”

“Fuck you, Val.” Weiss stares straight ahead into the fog, but doesn't get up. No further retaliation occurs. Someone had to say it, so it might as well have been Valentine. Weiss must think as much himself, even if he wants to push that futility down. Swallow up his hopelessness.

“Even though you're the one who keeps leaving them, you're also the one who ends up hurt,” Valentine doesn't want Weiss to misattribute his concern. It's for Weiss alone, not Danse.

“This time is different.”

No, it's not. But Valentine saves his breath. For what, he doesn't know, since strictly speaking, he doesn't need the oxygen.

\--

Weiss’ pipboy points them towards the Church of Atom, the only landmark known for certain in the Glowing Sea. Maybe the only place in the Wastes harboring people that could give Weiss a run for his money when it comes to poor life choices. Well, that's maybe a little unfair. Hancock is up there with mistakes too.

The trip over rolling hills towards the invisible marker in the distance is a silent one. Weiss’ pipboy keeps them on track. Danse doesn't start conversations. Valentine is focused on keeping his sensors tuned for danger. Weiss might have enough trouble trying not to suffocate in his suit. They all keep track of the time. Both the humans took doses of rad-x before putting on their helmets. They won't be able to take another until they're clear of the radiation field. 

The Children watch as their own skin starts pulling away from their muscles. Only a few of them will be blessed enough to turn ghoul, to accept the gift of Atom into their blood and bone. Valentine can think of few things more morbid, and he can fucking see his own frame through damaged passages. Robert can touch him through his imperfections. Valentine should know morbid.

Their leader tells Weiss they know Virgil. In response, Weiss hollers in his suit, his voice modulated through the helmet. But he pumps his fist, jumping up and down with glee. He runs to Danse, nearly knocking him over in his exuberance, even with the power armor holding them both upright.

Real. “Virgil is real,” Weiss shouts. “Real, real, real!” He laughs so loudly that, if the Children of Atom weren't all lost causes, they may have had the sense to be scared. 

“Okay, good. We should head in that direction,” Valentine tries to settle him.

The Children are forthcoming with information, though they mention that Virgil might not be hospitable to visitors. Weiss shouts, not quite as loud, that he doesn't fucking care. That the man exists is enough. Someone has been to the Institute and back. It can be done.

“We need to plot a course.” Weiss goes to his pipboy, turning the dial and placing a new marker. “The rad-x won't hold out that long...but Virgil...he must have some means of surviving.” With his helmet on, Weiss’ expression is impossible to read. 

Valentine offers, “I can go alone? Can you two make it back out to the edge?”

“No,” Weiss shakes his head, his helmet grating against the chest piece loudly. “I've got to be there. Danse, if you want, you can head back. The choice is yours.”

Weiss is lying. He knows full well his decision is Danse’s as well. Just because Valentine knows Weiss can't “save” Danse, doesn't mean that Danse knows that. Danse may not even know that he’s trying to be saved. What a mess.

“We go together,” Danse is sure.

“Okay. Let's waste no more time.”

They continue on.

\--

It takes another fifty-eight minutes after the rad-x dose ends for them to reach the entrance to Virgil’s cave. Not one of them bothers a thought to what might wait inside, rushing into the cave in the hopes that radiation levels will be lower. Weiss barrels in first, Danse and Valentine on his heels. Mercifully, Weiss’ geiger counter slows its incessant hum.

Weiss tears off his helmet letting it drop to the floor with a dull clang. Unable to come out of the suit, he huffs air down, before doubling over and vomiting onto the cave floor.

“Shit, fuck, shit,” his gauntleted hands curl into the dirt, hair falling forward as he tries to maintain composure. “Val, fuck,” he coughs again, choking up nothing but saliva now. 

“Fucking damnit,” Valentine opens his pack, pulling out two doses of radaway. Weiss probably needs a dose of mentats as well to ease withdrawal symptoms. Crouching next to Weiss, Valentine holds out the radaway pills and half a bottle of purified water, “Try and keep these down.”

Weiss grabs them from his hand, shoving them into his mouth before reaching for the water. Not carrying mentats himself, Valentine has to go through Weiss’ bag to find a tin.

Behind them, Danse stands stone still, his helmet off. He looks no worse for the wear. Valentine doesn't have time to dwell on that, only to rip open Weiss’ zippered bag and pull out the metal tin.

“Take these too,” he hands Weiss two mentats.

“Thank fucking God.” Weiss is even faster shoving those into his maw.

From further inside the cave booms a voice, “Who’s there?” And the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being loaded. 

Weiss is still coming back around. Valentine shouts, “We’ve just come to ask some questions, Dr. Virgil!” Then, under his breath, “Danse, get the fuck out of that armor.”

“If he attacks-”

“He will definitely feel threatened with two heavily armed men in power armor standing in his fucking doorway. And right now I can't get Weiss out of this suit. So climb the fuck out as a Goddamn olive branch.”

Weiss sits back, wiping at his mouth and trying to keep his legs out of his own pile of sick. It's hard to manage, still encased in his suit. “Please, Danse. I'll be right behind you.”

Danse doesn't look happy about it, but at Weiss’ insistence he starts disengaging from the amor, leaving it by the cave door.

“Here,” Valentine makes his own gesture of goodwill, holding out two radaway for Danse to take.

“I feel fine.” 

Well, Valentine certainly isn't going to baby him.

Two turrets are already trained on their position but haven't fired. They all know well enough they shouldn't yet move forward or they’ll be pumped full of holes.

“What do you want?” Virgil calls, still out of sight.

This time Weiss answers. “Information, just information. We’re trying to break into the Institute, we need your help.” He has to stand to get out of the suit. Valentine starts to help him, but Danse nearly pushes the detective out of the way to take his place.

“Into the Institute? That's impossible.”

“Says the only man to ever make it out,” Weiss argues.

There's a long pause. Between Danse and Valentine, they manage to extricate Weiss from his armor. He still looks too pale, his normally warm, tanned skin looking at once too yellow and too green. He needs an IV of radaway, not the inferior pill form. Danse seems to recognize this as well.

“Dr. Virgil, this is Pa-”

Weiss shakes his head vigorously, mouthing “no” sharply in Danse’s face.

“My name is Danse. My friend is ill. May we please come past the turrets?”

“How many of you are there?”

“Just us three,” Valentine responds. “Two men and a synth.” He hopes to pique Virgil’s curiosity. 

“The synth and the sick man may come. I want the other man in front of those turrets. As insurance.”

Valentine expects a fight from Danse, that ‘the synth’ should be left behind. The one thrown under the bus. Or that he’ll try to pass as a gen 3 himself. They hadn't specified what type of synth is on his way. But Valentine figures no one would ever expect a droid like him. Even one of the Institute's finest. But Danse doesn't object. 

“I'll do as you say.”

“Step in front of the turrets, right there in the center, and I'll let the other’s pass.”

Danse follows Virgil’s directive, squeezing Weiss’ hand before holding his position down the barrels of two heavy machine turrets. “Please, take care of him,” he asks of Valentine.

“Sure, toaster.”

Weiss tries to stumble on his own down the tunnel, but ends up needing Valentine’s shoulder after all.

\--

Virgil is terse and practical, letting Weiss and Valentine set up the radaway drip before anyone starts throwing around questions and accusations. Also, he's a supermutant. Minor detail. 

When Weiss first sees Virgil, the genuine smile on his face is downright unnerving. He's excited to see a mutant up close who isn't trying to tear his head off and suck down his spine, Valentine figures. For all Weiss’ interest in the mutants, he hasn't gotten the opportunity to speak to one. Most of them aren't amenable to conversation beyond, “kill all humans,” and “supermutants are the future! Harglebargleblerg!” They're not like ghouls, who can sit at the fringes of civilization as long as they keep their heads on straight. There's no fit for mutants in society. They're out of time and out of place. Maybe, that's why Weiss is curious.

“So, you want to get into the Institute,” Virgil holds a mug in his massive hands, sipping from it intermittently. His glasses stretch around his broad head, the frames looking as if they're about to come apart. “I need something in return. That is, if you can make it inside.”

Weiss leans forward in his chair, tubing going into the big vein in his right hand. Valentine isn't exactly the most skilled medic. And Virgil muttered something about his hands not being the same. His dexterity is all wrong. His science suffers.

“What do you need? Never mind. I'll do it,” Weiss is quick to agree. The greenness is already leaving the surface of his skin as the medicine drips into his blood. “I just have to get inside.”

“I need a vial, from my lab in bioscience. It is the probable cure for my….condition.” The pads of his fingers spread against the red porcelain of his mug as he presses into it. “If you do this for me, I can help you. But I cannot make it a promise.”

“Well, I can promise to look for your serum,” Weiss counters.

Virgil puts his mug down on the cluttered central table. His cave is full to the brim with stacks of equipment. Microscopes, beakers, two chemistry stations, bottles and bottles of unlabeled liquids. Scattered in with the intact equipment is a range of broken cast-offs. Valentine recognizes this. The fumbling of a man trying to re-learn his own body. His own skin a foreign object always out of his control, but all around him at the same time.

“You have to keep in mind, I worked in bioscience. None of that advanced systems technology. But I do know that every Courser carries an embedded chip that allows for teleportation in and out of the Institute. If you had one of those chips, it might be possible to rig a teleporter.”

They discuss details further. Weiss should be able to locate a Courser via his pipboy. They emit a low-level frequency his radio could, theoretically, pick up. The ruins of C.I.T. are densest with Courser traffic. Weiss should be able to pick one out eventually. From there, they’ll need someone with more technical expertise than Virgil could provide them.

Valentine doesn't think Virgil is lying. All his equipment here in the cave points to biology, some chemistry to support his research. Nothing that screams “I can make matter appear and disappear at will.” That still leaves the question of how Virgil himself made it out. But Weiss doesn't ask him about that. He's simply not interested. 

The IV bag runs dry. Weiss is eager to depart.

“It will be dark before we make it back to the edge. And we should give the radaway time.”

“Fuck that,” Weiss pops a rad-x and two mentats. “We can't leave Danse in front of those turrets indefinitely. And we have to get back to Diamond City before we head to C.I.T. There’s just too much to do.” Weiss is already ripping the needle from his arm. “Thank you for all your help, Dr. Virgil. I'll be back with your serum,” pocketing his needle, he turns to leave.

Valentine can only trot behind.

Danse stands, ramrod straight, just where they left him. His eyes look tired, his back stiff. But Valentine can't miss the smile that comes and goes as they emerge from Virgil’s laboratory.

“You look much better,” Danse sighs, running his fingers through the front of his hair.

Weiss laughs, clapping Danse on the shoulder before pulling him in for a hug. Keeping his hands around Danse’s waist and back, Weiss kisses the side of his head, just above Danse’s ear in warm black hair. “You were worried?”

“Of course,” Danse tries to sound professional. And fails. Valentine knows the difference.

\--

Weiss and Danse divert just outside the Fens. Valentine doesn't like it. Weiss whispers to trust him, please.

At the agency, Ellie is downstairs, flipping through old case files, sorting them into two piles, then four, then six. Separating the possible from the improbable. Valentine greets her, hanging up his coat and dropping his hat onto his desk. “You wouldn't happen to know where Robert is? He didn't interrupt too much, I hope?”

“Hmm?” Ellie looks up from her work, pushing a strand of loose hair from in front of her face and back behind her ear. “He's been gone for days. Left the day after you did.”

Valentine feels sort of empty, hollow. What? Robert left? He scans the surface of his desk, looking for a note, anything. Finding nothing, he heads upstairs.

There, on his pillow, is Robert's note. Valentine doesn't feel so fragile anymore. After all, it was Robert who was so concerned about commitment, about promises. So, he wouldn't just, bail. Valentine scans the note, then reads it over again. Everything is fine. He's worried over nothing.

Only he's been gone a week. Robert almost as long. Stuffing the note into his slacks pocket, Valentine figures he might as well head to the paper, see if maybe they have come back.

He finds Nat outside. The only information she has is that her sister and Robert were heading to Sanctuary. There's nothing to do but wait.


	15. Prioritize your Demons Because the Guest Room isn't Big Enough

MacCready can say, with absolute certainty, that if he were ever put into a position where he's being blindly led down a series of underground tunnels by some sort of weird anti-synth science cult a second time, he'd want Piper Wright at his side again. She's managed to convince the head of security, a non-descript man in khaki slacks and a flannel shirt named Manny, to take them to Doctor Chambers. Maybe there is a way to just get the girl back and collect their caps.

They already know that Covenant has been kidnapping synths, and they've taken Amelia Stockton hostage. Managed to piece that together from scraps of paper and a terminal entry Piper hacked into. Piper made the call to leave Honest Dan out of the loop, not really sure how honest he is. But if the people of lovely Covenant are taking prisoners, synths or not, someone has got to get to the bottom of this. So what began as Garvey’s curiosity about a successful settlement has now become Piper’s quest for the truth.

Garvey and MacCready walk behind Piper and Manny. They keep their hands off their guns, if only to avoid suspicion. MacCready doesn't know how all this is going to play out, but he hopes Piper can talk her way into getting the girl, and then they can get out. If not, he has to be prepared.

The compound is cramped, with low ceilings and narrow halls. The stone and dirt of the walls is only packed loosely, the place was built in a hurry. The metal walkways tremble as they descend. 

They stop in front of a metal door, Manny speaking to the man inside, asking how the trials are going. The man inside calls back that the subject is unresponsive. They'll have to wait until he wakes to continue. Manny appears pleased enough before moving on. MacCready comes up on his toes to look through the small glass window in the door. 

There's a desk, a man on either side. One must be the ‘scientist,’ leaning back and sipping casually from his mug. Across from him, another man has pins attached to all ten of his fingers. His head lays loose on the desk, hair flared out around his ears. He doesn't move. But he just looks like a man, any man.

By the time MacCready looks up again, the others are a ways ahead. One of the guards shoves him, telling him to catch up with Manny. They shouldn't be here anyway.

MacCready’s head is filled with questions, overflowing into his ears. For a terrifying moment, MacCready wonders if other people can tell? But that's impossible. It is not as if it's scratched across his forehead or anything, or written into his veins. And even if it were, would it matter? To these people, it would. That he's sleeping with a synth. Sometimes he forgets. Not that he forgets Nick. But that Nick’s...it's so obvious that sometimes it doesn't register.

But they can't tell. MacCready keeps walking, catching up to Piper and the others.

He worries about Garvey, a little. How this is all going to go down if they're not willing to hand over Amelia Stockton. If they're going to have to shoot their way back out? MacCready doesn't know how he's going to react himself. This is...unexpected. Putting himself on the line for someone he doesn't know. It doesn't matter one way or another if she's a synth, he tells himself. He doesn't know her.

But if it were Nick in that sealed room? Face down on the table, vulnerable, alone. Would he put himself on the line for Nick?

Yeah.

Yeah. He wouldn't be able to help himself. Not when it comes to someone he cares about.

He cares about Nick. 

Oh.

More than that.

Dr. Chambers is an imposing woman, even if she is not particularly large. Her graying hair tied up in a loose bun and her lab coat tinged with dirt in between the fibers. MacCready can't read her eyes behind obtrusive goggles. Besides, people stuff is Piper’s specialty. He's more concerned with picking out where he’d have the best vantage point in a firefight. Considering how long it would take him to get to Amelia’s cell. He can hear a girl whimper from a cage above. Garvey would be able to get to her faster, longer legs, stronger body. But MacCready doesn't know how fast Garvey would be able to pick the lock. Either himself or Piper might be faster. Garvey is too much the upstanding type to have much experience getting into places he shouldn't be.

“Can't you see?” Chambers explains to Piper, “with the SAFE test, we will be able, once and for all, to detect the synths among us. The physiological battery has proven more effective than any physiological test yet attempted.”

“Your methods are barbaric!” Piper seethes. “And to what end?”

“Extermination of all synths, of course. How else can we be secure?”

Piper sticks her finger right in Chamber’s face. “You're talking about genocide! No, we can't let the Institute use us like lab rats, we can't let them kidnap our families, our friends. But murdering the escaped synths who are just trying to survive? That's not the answer either. That's terror, in the minds of everyone, human or synth alike.”

MacCready drops his hand to the grip of his 10mm. If the tension breaks, he won't have time to aim his rifle. Sparing a glance at Garvey, MacCready can only trust that he’ll side with Piper, if not with the synths. Garvey looks back at him, his hand poised at his side as well.

“Please,” Piper argues, “Give us Amelia, let her go home to her father. She's done nothing to deserve this.”

Chambers does not waver, “She is a synth, she stays here.”

“You're going to torture that girl,” Piper’s voice falls.

“I'm going to protect humanity. No one else will.”

MacCready expects to be the first to shoot. But he's not. Piper fires her 10mm from the hip, straight into Chamber’s gut. But Piper’s gun isn't silenced, the shot ringing through the compound.

Training his pistol at Manny, MacCready shoots twice into his upper chest. He doesn't have the time or space for a prettier shot. Rushing to Manny’s downed body, MacCready pulls his key ring from his pocket. He tosses the keys to Garvey, who hasn't fired a shot.

“Get Amelia,” MacCready shouts, that’ll give Garvey something to do that he unequivocally believes in. Helping the weak. Rather than leaving him to his own thoughts, questioning the morality of what Piper has just done.

Security starts barging into the lab. Piper and MacCready have to hold them off until Garvey can get Amelia free. MacCready turns over one of the tables, sending the chemistry set crashing to the floor. Glass and ceramic lodge in the dirt floor as the test tubes, beakers, and jars break. He pulls Piper behind the table. It's heavy and metal. Won't stop larger caliber, but most of the guards have pistols. At a distance, it should slow buckshot too.

MacCready, with a little more time to line up his shot, takes the first guard in the skull. Piper uses three times as many bullets, but takes the easier shots into the next guard’s stomach and chest.

“Got her!” Garvey calls from the cells on the second level.

“Okay! Wait,” MacCready calls back. This was only Piper’s show while the weapons were words. Now, he has to step up. “Listen, run straight down this next hallway. Don't try and go the way we came, it'll be flooded with guards.”

He thinks about each person he's got to get into that narrow hallway. There’s a door at the end, that will take them closer to the entrance. It's chained, but it will be worth the extra time to open it. “Piper goes first, then Amelia, Garvey, then me.” It's not ideal to be shouting tactical advice, but with Garvey up above, there's no choice.

Another guard pops through. MacCready takes him down as swiftly as possible. “Piper, GO!”

She listens, scrambling out from behind the table, her pistol still drawn. What made her shoot earlier, MacCready can only guess. Right now, he can't dwell, he can only try and get them all out of this mess alive.

“Amelia, I need you to be brave, okay?” Garvey squeezes the girl’s shoulders just before they start running down the ramp. Amelia’s hair flutters behind her, her hands over her mouth to stop any noise that might involuntarily escape. She's terrified.

MacCready is on Garvey’s heels, leaving as little space as possible. As he crosses the threshold out of the lab, he turns his back to Garvey and follows backwards, keeping his eyes open for the next round of guards. He can hear their boots echoing in the halls.

Holstering his pistol, MacCready swings around his rifle, hoping to pick off the guards before they get close. As one rounds the corner, he shoots down the aisle before they make the next turn along the walkway. Catching the side of the guard’s face, MacCready doesn't kill him with the first shot. He screams in agony, clutching his face. The second bullet takes him down. 

“It's open!” Piper shouts. MacCready knew she could get the chains unlocked fastest. MacCready hurries them all into the next hallway.

\--

When they finally emerge into the lake, soaking wet and breathing heavy, Amelia wails. None of them stop her. 

“I'm not a synth!” she cries.

The guards, the doctors, they're all dead. It's safe enough for her to sob. But maybe something inside Amelia is dead too. Even now, some children are sheltered. Some are lucky. She's not so very lucky anymore.

They stand, shin deep in the murky waters. It's not safe. Mirelurks are a real threat, no matter how large or small the lake. And this lake is a particularly large one. Still, there's something oddly comforting about watching the sky move while their feet are wet, even though MacCready hates the water. 

“Why did you shoot, Piper? I didn't think you cared about synths like that?”

Piper tilts her head to one side. “I'm opposed to injustice. A bunch of people band together, make a settlement? The world a better place? That's great. A mob decides to kidnap people, on the mere suspicion they're synths? Build a fucking underground compound to torture them? In what world is that acceptable?” She sighs, “I don't want to live in that world.”

MacCready can't argue with that. 

Garvey helps Amelia out of the water. She hugs him fiercely when they're on dry land, thanking him for saving her. They’ll turn her over to Honest Dan back in Covenant. What they’ll do with the settlers, all those people, who want synths eradicated? MacCready isn't sure. No telling how they’ll react.

“Do you think she's one? A synth?” MacCready asks.

Piper replies, “I'm not sure it matters.”

\--

They meet Dan along the road to Covenant. There's a wound across his shoulder, where a bullet sliced through his armor. He holds a rag to the spot to stem the bleeding.

“The settlers, they received some sort of signal? Then opened fire,” he explains. When Amelia rushes forward to reveal herself, Dan smiles softly, saying it’s time for her to go home to her father. She's had enough excitement for a lifetime. 

MacCready holds out his hand for the caps they're owed. Piper scoffs, but Dan is a merc and MacCready’s a merc, and they deserve these caps for the work they put into Dan’s job. The world doesn't run on charity. It's almost cute that Piper and Garvey can just do nice things without needing compensation. What a luxury. 

“What about Covenant?” Piper asks.

“What about it?”

“We can't just...they’ll do it again. You know they will.”

He does. Because people don't change so easily. “Is it really our problem? We found the girl.”

“And what about the next caravan, or the next? How many people are they going to blindly accuse? They don't get to decide what's best for the Commonwealth.”

“And we do?” MacCready asks.

Garvey interjects, “We should ask the General.”

Piper bites back, “Fuck Vishnu!” Her hands are shaking. But just as soon, she regains composure. “Yeah. Yeah, we get to decide. You, me, Nick, Vishnu. Don't you see? We’re going to do this. Together. We’re going to make this world better.”

“How do you know, Piper?” MacCready doesn't know what she could possibly say to convince him. “How do you know we’re making the world better, and not worse?”

“Because we don't hide from the truth. We know we’re flawed, but we’re also sort of beautiful too. I know we’re making the world better, because we still worry about making things worse.”

\--

As he’s dragging the bodies out of Covenant, stacking them in a heap, MacCready questions whether or not he's a good man. Or if, somehow, he gave up himself in the hopes of something greater. He lights the pyre, watches the bodies burn, a beacon in the darkness.

Garvey comes to meet him. They sit together at the edge of the fire. Piper must still be inside the walls. When it was all over, the last settler dead, she'd burst into tears. MacCready left Garvey behind to comfort her. “Do you think what we did here was right?” His eyes are wet too.

MacCready’s not sure, but he has to say something. “You can't be sure, who is a synth, who isn't. Chambers was wrong. Her test can't tell anything.”

“These people,” Garvey stares into the flames, “they thought they were doing the right thing. That they were standing up for the people of the Commonwealth.”

“Yeah, and we’re a bunch of strays following an addict antique. When you put it in plain terms, we look like the bad guys.”

\--

Garvey comes with them to Diamond City, eager to report to Weiss about what happened at Covenant. MacCready wishes they'd never have to speak of it again. That it could be a secret between the three of them. But it won't be. The radio, traders, everyone, they’ll start talking about what happened. A whole settlement, thought safe, butchered. But they won't know the whole story. Not unless Piper writes it down. MacCready wonders if she'll write about how she cried.

He wants to go straight for the agency. Tell Nick that he's back, and not tell him what happened at Covenant. Because he's honestly not sure how Nick’s opinion of him might change. If, somehow, he could retroactively fail Nick’s evaluation of his character. But two sets of power armor sit outside the paper’s door. Weiss is back. The three of them shuffle into Publick Occurrences.

Inside, Weiss’ socked feet are up on Piper’s desk, a cigarette between his lips. Paladin Danse is nowhere to be seen. 

“Good, you're back. Heard you went on a settlement run?” Weiss hops up. “Did it go well?” He doesn't pause, “Virgil did have a lead about the Institute.”

“So Virgil is real,” Piper’s eyes go wide. “Tell me everything.”

“He's from biosciences. And get this, guy made himself into a supermutant. That's how he lives in the Glowing Sea. Wild, right? Wild. The guy is huge. But still sharp. Anyway, we need to kill a courser.”

“Kill a courser?” Piper sounds skeptical, “you mean those super synths they send out? No way.”

“Yes, way,” Weiss smiles, taking another drag. “Virgil explained to me how to track one with my pipboy. So, all we have to do is find it, kill it.”

“They're not even alive,” MacCready mumbles.

“Alive enough we’ll have to kill one,” Weiss corrects.

Garvey nods, “I'm in.”

Weiss smiles, “What about you, MacCready, what's your fee for another job? I'd love to have you.”

MacCready thinks about the caps. He thinks about Duncan. And the fastest way out of this descending spiral. “No,” he clenches his fists at his sides. “Not this one, no sorry.” This isn't possible. Nothing Weiss does is possible. Yet he keeps accomplishing his objectives. 

Weiss’ smile falters. “Okay, sure,” he turns his attention back to Garvey. “You, me, Danse, Val.”

“No!” Because quite suddenly MacCready would rather go himself than send Nick. Send Nick, to track down a courser? That's insane. Nick claims the Institute threw him away, but what if he wasn't? What if he escaped? Broken and battered, alone. What if all this time, they've just not been able to find him? And now he’ll just walk into their open arms. No.

Weiss’ face contorts. Like he's only beginning to realize something. “Piper, then. The four of us can do it.”

“Really,” Piper scoffs, “I finally get a combat mission. When you're out of other options?”

“Yeah,” Weiss grits his teeth, his mood continuing to sour, “that's what this is about, Piper.”

Weiss climbs out of Piper’s chair, long limbs flopping down. He pushes the chair away from the desk hard enough it crashes into the wall behind. Piper says nothing, curling and uncurling her fists. “If you're coming with me, meet at the gates at seven tomorrow. If not, just fuck off, I guess.”

“And where the hell are you going, Vishnu?” Piper’s nearly a foot shorter than Weiss. But she looks ready to scale the vaultie just to punch his skull in. 

“To the marketplace. I'll see you tomorrow, Piper.” He grabs his pack from its place by the door before storming out.

MacCready doesn't know if he's expected to stay or go. Desperately, he just wants to go.


	16. See Through

Robert knocks. He has the damn keys to the agency, but still, he knocks. Valentine finds the gesture rather sweet, instead of annoying. It's only been a day that he's been back to Diamond City without his keys, so it hasn't been much trouble, Ellie being able to let him in and lock up after. But the idea that Robert thinks he's disturbing him is sort of funny-sweet. Sort of charming, though Robert isn't really ever intentionally charming.

“Hey,” Valentine opens the door, leaning against the frame. Robert ducks under his arm and into the agency. His eyes are red, dark circles surrounding white and blue. “Are you alright?”

Robert doesn't answer him, grabbing onto Nick’s loosened tie with one hand and the collar of his shirt with the other. Pulling Valentine down, Robert kisses him with confidence at first, trailing off towards the end. Valentine wraps his arms around Robert’s narrow frame until his hands come to rest at the small of his back.

Breathing in, Robert floods Valentine’s body with newly circulated air, rushing in at his neck the fastest, where he's exposed. But as Robert draws and draws, Valentine can feel the air stir at his chest and side as well, anywhere the coating is failing, damaged. Robert’s body heats against his. Valentine drops his temperature to his toes instead, warming the floorboards.

“Why am I so weird about you?” MacCready asks when he pulls back. But he doesn't stray far, his lips still close enough to kiss. “Why do I forget? What are you doing to me?”

Valentine doesn't dare straighten his back, keeping his face level with Robert’s. “I could ask you the same question.”

Robert groans, “But you're a synth.”

“That bother you?” Valentine smirks, “didn't when I had my hand wrapped around your cock.” He takes one hand from Robert’s back, using it to brush against his crotch. “Doesn't seem to bother you now.”

“No,” Robert responds, “but it should.”

They kiss again. Robert breathes, his hands coming to the buttons of Valentine’s shirt, loosening them one by one, once the tie is pushed aside. When Robert’s halfway finished, Valentine grabs him by the hips, pushing him back towards the ladder. They’ll have to break apart to make it to the loft. But this time, Valentine wants to take his time. There can't possibly be any place they need to be before tomorrow morning. Hell, he’ll stay up all damn night if that's what it takes to pull Robert apart. To make him forget, if that's what he wants. Valentine sort of thinks it is. He squeezes harder than he needs to, until Robert gasps back into his mouth.

“Are you bothered?” Valentine asks.

“No.”

“Want to go upstairs?”

“Yes.”

Valentine pushes Robert along first, watching his ass as he ascends the ladder. All of his pants are too loose, a fucking shame for sure. Once Robert is at the top, he follows, taking the rungs two at a time. 

Robert lights the lamp, switching off the electricity. Would've been nice to see more, but Valentine’s not going to belabor the point, he'd rather spend his energy putting his hands everywhere Robert is soft and warm, intact and perfect. He slides his hands under the hems of Robert’s shirts, intending to lift them all off at once. He does, sending Robert’s hair up in a staticy mess. 

“You're fucking perfect, you know?” He cradles Robert’s face in his hands, always mindful of the harsher metal one. Licking into Robert’s mouth, he probes and probes until the merc groans in retaliation. Robert’s hands are at the waistband of his pants, popping open the button, working the zipper down. “Bobby, what do you want?”

Robert sticks his hand down the front of Valentine’s pants, stroking his flattened palm against his smooth groin. It's pleasurable to be touched, but no more so than anywhere else his coating is intact. Still, Robert splays his hand as wide as he can and rubs. Fuck, it's good.

“I want to put my cock between your legs. Would that be okay?” Robert’s directness, his candor, is still so unexpected, like it doesn't suit his features, his otherwise quiet presence in the roar of other people. But Valentine likes it, fuck does he like it.

“Yes.”

Robert sneaks his hands around the waistband of Valentine’s pants, shoving them off his straight-cut hips. He's careful not to snag the fabric against the edges of false skin. When his pants hit the floor, Valentine steps out of them. He's still in his shirt, loose tie around his neck. He leaves them for now.

The front of Robert’s slacks tents, the outline of his erection clear. Absentmindedly he palms himself through the fabric. “Do you have something, like, to make it slick?”

“Planning on giving me an oil change?”

Robert groans, “I thought that joke was too obvious, but sure. I just don't want to chafe my cock. It'll be better for me. And maybe for you, I don't know.”

“Bedside drawer.”

Robert pulls open the drawer, grabbing the tube and setting it down on top of the table. Valentine can't resist, grabbing the waist of Robert’s slacks and opening them at the front. Robert just looks so fucking small out of his clothes. Like he's breakable. And it reminds Valentine of a time not-him was expected to be protective. Where not-him would fold a partner into not-his lap, use not-his hands on their hips to bounce them on not-his cock. 

Pulling down Robert’s slacks, Valentine holds his erection in his hand, stroking it in an even rhythm, until Robert bucks against him. He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling Robert into his lap as the merc finishes with the buttons on his shirt, tossing away the tie too.

It's quiet in the semi-darkness. Alone and naked. They haven't managed this before. Robert puts their lips together and breathes. The moment stills.

“I want to do it facing you, okay?” Robert asks.

“Alright,” Valentine smirks. He's got a pretty good idea of how this works, but he hasn't actually tried it before. Hasn't been with someone who wanted it, or at least, was able to ask for it.

They maneuver together until Valentine’s back is to the mattress. Robert spreads Valentine’s legs slightly, slipping his hand in between. He grabs the bottle from of the table, squeezing some of the lubricant into his warmed hand before sticking it back between Valentine’s thighs. Valentine redistributes his heat again, to between his legs, his chest, his fleshed hand.

Robert is gentle, precise, distributing lubricant against his thighs and groin. That alone feels good, the focused attention of pressure and touch. Robert only looks away for a moment to spread more onto his hand, to rub over his cock. 

“Keep your thighs pressed together, if you can.”

“And if it's too tight?”

“Won't be,” he pauses, as if thinking something over. “I'll tell you.”

Robert spreads his legs around Valentine’s tightly closed ones, using one hand to support his weight and the other to ease his cock between Valentine’s thighs. He sinks and sinks until their hips are flush. Pulling his hand away, Robert uses both arms to support his weight, dipping his head back down to brush against Valentine’s lips. The kiss is brief, Robert pulling back his head to start shallowly thrusting into the pocket of smooth heat Valentine's body creates. The skin of Robert’s cock drags against his synthetic flesh, almost as hot, almost painfully hard.

Valentine smooths his hands across Robert’s chest, drawing a line from his sternum to his navel and back again. Then brushing against the patch of ash-brown hair above his cock. Robert groans in response, trashing a little. “Nick, oh.”

His eyes keep closing. “Keep them open, won't you?” Valentine asks.

Robert obliges, and even though it's dark, Valentine can see how stormy-blue they still are. The lamp and the illumination from his own eyes are enough to keep them lit. He trails his fingers across Robert’s hips before grabbing on, pulling him down fiercely, helping him fuck against Valentine’s body. He's so bony that Valentine can feel the scrape of his pelvis on each thrust, cutting into him.

“What about you?” Valentine rasps, “do you like being scratched?”

Robert pants, “Yes, please.”

Valentine uses the sharper hand, but he's still careful, drawing a line from the center of Robert's back, curling around his hip. Robert shivers and fades, coming between Valentine’s thighs. His eyes are open, his mouth wet. He breathes the name, “Nick,” and it feels right. There will be red lines left behind. He wasn't careful enough, threads of blood just at the surface of Robert’s skin.

Robert's arms shake. Valentine pulls him down to his chest, kissing him with slow, rolling affection until his shoulders still. Between his legs is sticky and wet, but he doesn't mind. He’ll clean up in a moment. Robert dances his fingers against his chest, two of them dip into his thoracic cavity, brushing against his wiring. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Robert asks.

Valentine laughs, “You always ask that.” He curls his arm underneath Robert’s shoulder, bringing his hand around to tangle in his hair.

“You don't orgasm, right,” his voice is drowsy, “so I want to make sure.”

“No, I don't. I haven't,” Valentine sighs. “But I like this. Very much.”

Robert’s fingers stop moving. “We went to a settlement. Covenant.”

“Oh?” Valentine is careful not to ask too many questions.

“They were...kidnapping people they thought were synths. They stole a girl. They were torturing men. Some, plan to eradicate synths from the Commonwealth.”

His hair is so soft. It's easy for Valentine to forget how young he is, given the beaten look to his face. 

“If someone were to ask me, if synths deserve to live among us, I don't know what I'd tell them.”

Valentine stops moving his hand.

“A month ago I would have told them no, never,” Robert must know what he's implying. “But we, Piper, Preston, and I. We. We killed those people, at Covenant, for what they were planning to do to synths.”

“Bobby?” He can't stay silent any longer. Part of him is fearful.

“Weiss is going to C.I.T., to find a Courser. They need something from one to get into the Institute. He wanted you to go. I told him no.”

“Are you going?”

“No.” Robert presses his nose against Valentine’s chest. “I was afraid for you. If a Courser saw you.”

“I told you,” Valentine’s hand starts moving again in Robert’s hair. He never wanted to stop. “I'm the Institute’s garbage.”

“I couldn't let you go.”

Robert is silent for so long, Valentine assumes he's fallen asleep.

But then, “Nick, I need your help.”

Valentine turns his head, kissing Robert’s forehead. “What is it?”

He draws a ragged breath, “My son. He's sick. This...he has these blue boils, all over his body. He's in so much pain. Last time I saw him, he could barely walk. Then I met this guy, Sinclair, told me about a buddy of his with the same blue boils. They’d tracked the cure to Med-Tek research. This old facility. It can't be a coincidence.” Robert shifts his weight against Valentine’s shoulder. “I've been trying to earn enough caps to hire backup. I mean, I'm good,” Robert smiles lightly, “but I'm not good enough to handle a facility full of ghouls on my own.”

“That's why you spend so little,” Valentine realizes.

“Yeah, that and I gotta send caps back home, so Duncan gets what care he can…I turned down more caps from Weiss. I need them. But I couldn't. I need to get that cure. I don't know how much time Duncan has left.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. When the others leave to track the Courser, we go to Med-Tek, get the cure for your son.”

“Really? I was hoping, but...listen, it's just...been a long time since anyone has cared enough about me.”

“Yeah,” Valentine thinks it over, “me too.”

“But I haven't done anything.”

Valentine smiles, thinking about how wrong Robert is.

\--

Weiss, to his credit, doesn't look upset at all that Valentine and Robert won't be joining him to find the Courser. He smiles widely, rows of straight teeth showing, stained by coffee and cigarettes, but still more attractive than your average Waster’s. Valentine can remember when everyone had pretty teeth and gums that didn't bleed. Not remember, but see.

“Shame you're not coming with,” Weiss has one arm thrown over Piper’s shoulders, but their hips don't touch. There’s still a distance there. “Though looks like MacCready had plans for you all along,” there's a lewdness to his suggestion. Well, he's not wrong on that count.

“Yeah,” Valentine pulls his cigarette from his mouth, “shouldn't take long to wrap up. I'll be back in action for the next step.” Valentine is careful not to make assumptions on Robert’s behalf. Maybe, after this, he goes back to the Capital, his business in the Commonwealth concluded. That’s not what Valentine wants, but he would understand. Robert has a farm and a child. A life other than this one. One where he doesn't spend the night in a synth’s bed, where he's the man he always assumed himself to be, not the one he's stitched together out of necessity. 

That's bullshit, though. They're all ragdolls.

“And MacCready,” Weiss turns his attention. “I hope to see you again.” He says it like he knows this is goodbye. He doesn't expect to see Robert again, once he gets what he needs.

Robert shakes Weiss’ hand, but doesn't correct his assumption.

They walk out the gates together, only splitting into two groups once they leave the Fens behind.


	17. Trespasses against the good will of others

From the outside, Med-Tek is just another building. And in the Wastes, there are more buildings now than people to support them. MacCready wonders if the world will ever be full again. The world before the bombs. The world of Weiss and Valentine (Valentine, not his Nick) was crowded, with enough human bodies to populate all these buildings. MacCready can barely imagine it. All of this wreckage, not only intact, but in motion.

He takes a deep breath.

The ghouls outside are already dead, strewn over the pavement where they fell. And in some distant way, MacCready realizes, the world is still full of people. Only, it's inconvenient to call them humans anymore. Then again, he's well past mourning the dead he does not know by name. Otherwise, how is he supposed to survive?

Nick’s waiting on him. Waiting on whatever grand, tactical scheme he's supposed to devise for getting in to grab the cure. But MacCready won't know for certain until they're inside, because right now he just knows ghouls. And outside, ghouls are easy, with enough space plus time to pick them off. Indoors, in cramped quarters? Ghouls swarm, they rip and tear and screech. And MacCready thinks he might be ill. He's not made for melee combat, and neither is Nick. But he's got himself and he's got Nick, but Duncan might be running out of time. So, they have to move.

“Okay, okay,” MacCready prepares himself. “We have to go inside. I'll take up the advanced position.” He swings his rifle onto his back, pulling his pistol instead. “Always start with the furthest ghoul. I'll start with the closest.”

Nick is holding his hand, rubbing the soft pad of his thumb over the dent of MacCready’s knuckles. “And we meet in the middle?”

“Nah,” MacCready forces a smile. “I always move faster than you do with the pistol. I'll meet you about two-thirds of the way.”

“You really keep all that information about people in your head, don't you?”

“You'd think you'd be the more observant one, wouldn't you?”

Nick smiles back, “You'd think.”

MacCready is careful with the door. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, ghouls can be shot quietly and quickly before they stir. That is, if they're not already shambling about. Holding the door open, he ushers Nick inside. He's careful to avoid the click of the latch shutting behind them.

It takes a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the lobby. Nick’s eyes are the brightest thing in the room. Ghouls are somewhat light sensitive, flocking like moths if they’re awake and agitated. MacCready can use that to their advantage. The ghouls may lock onto the more distant Nick, not noticing him up ahead. This just might work

MacCready creeps forward to the welcome desk, careful to mind the debris on the floor; he doesn't want it crackling under his boots. But he's light and quick and doesn't make too much noise. Nick hangs back by the door.

In the corner there’s a heap of desiccated bodies. MacCready can't be certain if they're alive or not unless he gets closer. They may be able to leave this room without disturbing them, but that runs the risk of having them come up from behind, if the next room forces gunfire.

Either way is a risk, so MacCready steps closer, enough to see the ghoul’s chest rise and fall before shooting two rounds into its head. The hiss of the bullets moving through the silencer sounds loud in comparison to the stillness of the room. The ghoul stops breathing. MacCready stops again.

“The others are dead,” his voice is just above a whisper as he motions for Nick to come closer. “We need to find the executive terminal to lift the lockdown on the labs.” He strikes at the keyboard attached to the front desk terminal aimlessly. “See if you can find anything.”

“What am I looking for?” Nick pulls up the knocked over chair to sit at the terminal. 

MacCready tenses, worried that they’re making too much noise. But nothing runs in from the next room. 

“Where the terminal might be. I have the password for it, but not the location.”

Nick nods, his fingers moving across the keyboard. MacCready keeps his eyes on the door, ready to defend them both if ghouls break through. Only occasionally do his eyes flicker back to the lit terminal. Nick appears to be going through the receptionist’s private messages.

“Upstairs, on the left.” Nick shuts down the terminal. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” MacCready touches his fingers against the coat seam on Nick’s shoulder before withdrawing his hand again. “Let’s go.”

\--

In the end, the ghouls don’t get the better of them. They don’t swarm, choking the life out of MacCready, finishing what they started years ago. He doesn’t end up broken on the floor. He doesn’t end up like Lucy. 

Systematically, he and Nick fell the ghouls as they approach. They make it to the terminal, Nick taking the password from MacCready’s hands to enter and remove the lockdown. This is the final step.

They take the stairs back down, two at a time for MacCready. The facility is eerily silent now, the researchers finally put out of their centuries of misery. Nick trots along at a slower pace behind him until they reach the containment labs.

MacCready can already hear them, once he hits the top of the stairs that lead further down to the labs. There are more ghouls below. Those scientists who were sealed inside, nowhere to go. They groan and hiss, maybe woken by the doors sliding open. MacCready holds his breath. Nick’s hands come to rest on his shoulders. They stand together, waiting to hear how the ghouls move, if they’ve detected MacCready and Nick’s presence yet. The pack of them are just around the corner, and while he can see into the labs through the big glass windows, MacCready can’t see the door. They’re going to have to take that hallway.

“I’m going to draw them out, we’ll shoot them as they approach.” MacCready trades his pistol for the sniper rifle, though there’s barely enough room to maneuver. Nick moves his hands, skimming down MacCready’s back before withdrawing for his rifle. MacCready can’t make out how many ghouls there are.

He can’t risk using a grenade, not knowing how strong the glass is. There’s a chance he could blow the cure, if he’s not careful. He grabs a spare glass beaker from a box of junk instead.

“Three, two,” on one he tosses the glass at the wall, shards falling like water to the floor. The ghouls grow quiet, then one shrieks, coming around the corner and towards the staircase. 

MacCready picks the first one off, leaving the second for Nick. Nick needs more shots, unless the laser overcharges. But MacCready’s rifle is slower. He readjusts from the recoil, ready for the next ghoul.

Sh-No. The third ghoul to round the corner glows, big and bright and full of half-life. MacCready gets the first shot off before the ghoul pulses, raising the first two from the dead. A fourth joins on its heels, savage and snarling from the radiation high. Nick fires six shots into the glowing one, but it’s not down yet and he has to reload. 

“Shit, shit,” Nick’s hands work fast, with precision movements, loading more e-cells into the rifle. 

MacCready takes the next shot. The glowing one has to go down or they’re in trouble. He fires, catching the ghoul in the head. It staggers, alight again as it dissipates its pain as radioactive mist. MacCready can feel that one, creeping along his skin like a warm breeze. It hurts, the way it tingles. 

Nick finishes the glowing one off with another eight shots. 

But it has taken too much time, one of the other ghouls is already up the stairs. It lunges at MacCready, knocking him onto his back and pinning him to the landing. He tries to get his arms free, to lash back and kick the ghoul away. But the rads seep between their bodies like sharp static. And the ghoul is heavier than him, suffocating him. Again and again he tries to kick out. But the ghoul won’t move. MacCready tries to breathe, but it’s on his chest, closing him down, pounding the air from his lungs.

Not until it dissolves to ash above him, falling like snow across his body, into his eyes, settling on his face, can MacCready breathe again. Nick doesn’t wait, turning his rifle back to the next ghoul. 

MacCready scrambles back up, this time pulling his pistol. The rifle takes too long to aim and load. He empties the clip into the next ghoul before pounding a new one in to resume firing. His side is wet, torn, but it doesn’t hurt yet. The adrenaline will get him through this. He has to get through this. He fires again, and again, listening to the way the bullets tear through dried flesh. Nick’s laser races past his bullets as they fire into the same target, taking it down before it can advance too close.

When the last one ghoul goes down, MacCready drops to his knees, clutching his side. The pain start welling as it cuts through the haze of survival. Stims. He needs a stim. But he can’t reach to swing his pack back around, his body won’t twist that way. It’s too painful.

“Shit,” Nick’s on his knees too, kneeling in front of MacCready. Sticking his hand into his pocket, he pulls out two stims, uncapping the first with his mouth. “You gotta move your hand,” he mumbles around the cap. 

MacCready draws his hand away, slick with blood. He doesn’t have to look to know how deep the gash is. The sharp prick of the stim stands out from the rest of the throb. Once the chem is in, Nick runs his soft hand down the side of his face. “You need a radaway too.”

“It can wait until we’re done here.” His wound stitches closed. The process isn’t particularly pleasant, and it still hurts. But his skin stretches and tries to seal back together. He’s pulled so tight that it feels like the wind is getting knocked out of him again. Or maybe that’s the rads talking. “Duncan needs that cure.”

Nick helps him to his feet. The door to the lab is around the corner. Inside, everything is still laid out and labeled, what the ghouls haven’t tipped over. MacCready keeps his hand over where the stim is still working, as they split up to read the vials. 

Hands shaking, he grabs the correct one. He almost can’t believe it. This is it, this is the treatment that is going to save Duncan. He wants to scream and cry and pound the walls all at once. Because this is it. Duncan is going to be okay. This time, he hasn’t failed. 

“That it?” Not until Nick speaks does MacCready realize he’s been staring at the little glass tube in his hand.

“Yeah, yeah it is.”

“How do we get it to your son?” Nick drops his hand to MacCready’s hip, just below where the ghoul slashed him. Anchors MacCready to the steps still ahead.

“Daisy, in Goodneighbor. She knows the caravan,” MacCready swallows. He should be on that caravan too. But he’s unsure. Duncan needs the cure. And Duncan needs his father too. But the question is, does Duncan need a better world? “She’ll make sure it gets to him.”

Nick nods.

\--

Daisy, to her credit, doesn’t act surprised when MacCready tells her he doesn’t need a place on the caravan back to the Capital. He just sends the cure along, with as many caps as he can manage. She promises that the vial is in safe hands, or she’ll make certain the caravaners never work again. Her smile is soft as he turns away from the shop, but she calls Nick back to talk about something.

MacCready doesn’t eavesdrop, going outside and sitting on the curb to wait. If it doesn’t concern him, it doesn’t concern him. Putting his face in his hands, he tries to catch his breath. He’s starting to come down, his heart rate slowing. But he’s made his decision to stay. It wasn’t easy. But he thinks this is the right choice.

Nick comes up behind him, sitting next to him on the curb. His longer limbs stretch out. Patting his front breast pocket, he pulls out his cigarettes and lights one. “What’s next for you?”

MacCready isn’t expecting the question. “I suppose I keep working for Weiss. He’s our best shot, right?”

“I was surprised, when you didn’t want to leave with the caravan.”

MacCready laughs, “So was I. I want to go. But I want to help too.”

“Right.” Nick taps off his ash, “right.”

“Do you think he can really do it?” MacCready asks, “that he can take down the Institute?”

“Like hell if I know. But at least he’s trying.”

Their hips almost touch as they sit for a long while, Nick burning down his cigarette. MacCready doesn’t know what more to say to fill up the empty air between them. Maybe he doesn’t have to say anything because this, just this, is nice. He puts his hand on Nick’s knee, happy when Nick slides his hand over top of his and squeezes. 

From the corner of his eye, MacCready catches a glimpse of a black haired child, racing across the pavement. The leather coat over her shoulders is sizes too big. MacCready doesn’t think much of it, until he sees the green patched over the back of the coat. 

“No way,” he jumps up, leaving Nick behind, and chases after her. He can see clearly now the emblem on the back of her coat. He recognizes it from his childhood. “Hey! Stop!” Catching up to her, he grabs at her shoulder, turning her around. Her eyes are soft and blue. “Where did you get that coat?”

She sneers, “My pa!” It's easy enough for her to wrench out of MacCready’s grip. She's about to break off running again, but he has to stop her. He has to know.

“Tunnel snakes rule!” He can't think of anything else to make her stay.

The girl stops dead in her tracks.


	18. More and Less than What It Seems at Third Glance

The blue-eyed, black haired girl says her name is Clara Almodovar-Gomez and she's nine years old and she already knows how to aim and fire a 10mm pistol and soon her mom is going to teach her the rifle too and “How do you know about my gang?” She stamps her foot on the crumbling pavement and waits for Robert to answer. 

He bumbles for a moment, before crouching down to get at eye level with her. Tugging at the lapel of the jacket thrown over her shoulders, he says, “I knew boys, a long time ago, with jackets like these.”

“No, you couldn't, because the jackets are from my gang,” she corrects with an air of authority. “And we only came to the Commonwealth a year ago.”

“Yeah?” Robert counters, “me too. And I bet I know where you got that jacket too.”

“I said, my pa,” she's not conceding. 

Valentine laughs, the girl’s tough. She doesn't want to play Robert’s game. Probably thinks she's too grown already for child’s play.

“One-oh-one?” Robert asks her with all the charm he can manage. 

Her eyes grow wide. “Yeah! That's where we used to live!” She exclaims, suddenly much more interested in what Robert has to say. “I was born below ground but then we came up above and everything is so bright and pretty. Oh, but I miss home too!”

“Yeah?” Robert smiles. “The boys I knew, they said they missed living underground too. Vault 101 must have been nice.”

“It was! It is! But ma said it was time for us to leave. That important things were happening on the surface.”

“Clara? Clara?” A woman of no more than thirty comes out of the Rexford. She's short and compact, with brown hair that falls against her shoulders in curls, and brown eyes. “There you are! What did I tell you?”

“To go straight to Miss Daisy then to come right back. But, ma!” she gestures wildly to Robert. “He knows one-oh-one!”

Robert stands, holding his hand out to the woman, “Um, hi? I recognized the jacket?” He offers as an excuse.

The woman’s eyes narrow. “Wait,” then they widen again. “Oh,” her hand comes in front of her mouth, “how?”

“I used to live in the Capital. Ah, not inside a vault, but close to one. This was ten years ago,” he scratches the back of his head, sticking his elbow out. “I was just a kid then. But this boy, Tate? He needed something from the vault.”

“You knew Tate.” She looks about to cry. But she stops herself, offering her hand instead. “I'm Amata Almodovar, Overseer of Vault 101 from 2278 until 2286. But now? I guess I'm just Amata.”

“Robert Joseph MacCready,” he laughs, “I guess...Mayor of Little Lamplight from ‘75 until ‘80.” He turns to Valentine, “this is my friend, Nick Valentine.”

Friend, right. Valentine supposes the alternatives sound weird. Boyfriend is too youthful, lover too suggestive, partner too ambiguous.

Amata laughs too, “So, Little Lamplight wasn’t just a rumor, then?”

Valentine’s got no idea about this mayor thing, or Little Lamplight. It occurs to him that Robert still has secrets he'd rather keep. Maybe he shouldn't even be here, lodged into this conversation that doesn't concern him.

“No, it's real. And yeah, I met Tate, and um, his friend, I met his friend later, Butch. Clara she-”

For a flash, Amata looks like she's going to deck Robert right in the face. But instead, she interrupts him, “Clara, your father is inside, go get him, I'm sure he'd like to meet Robert too?”

The girl leaves without protest. Once she's inside, Amata speaks again. “She loves her father very much.”

Robert shakes his head, “She looks just like him.”

Amata draws her lips into a thin line. “I suppose you haven't seen Tate lately?”

“Ah, no,” he shakes his head, “Like I said, this was ten years ago.”

A man just of Amata’s age comes out of the hotel, Clara gripping his hand tightly. If Clara is supposed to look like her father, this man can't be him. Though he does look kind, with black hair like hers, but his face is all wrong, his eyes too. “Love?”

“Freddie,” Amata smiles, “This is Robert and Nick Valentine. Robert knew Tate and Butch, after they left the vault.”

Freddie breaks into a smile too, shaking Robert’s hand with the one Clara doesn't have in a death grip. “Really? I'm sorry you had to suffer through that.”

Amata shoves him in the side. Freddie laughs in response. 

“Really though? For a guy who’s supposed to be famous, we never could figure out what happened to Tate after he left Megaton.”

“I didn't know him from Megaton,” Robert corrects.

“Hey! You two should have dinner with us, really,” Freddie offers. He doesn't appear put off at all that Valentine is a synth, neither is his wife, for that matter. Suspicious, to say the least, that they don't seem to care. Then again, vaulties are a bit unhinged by nature. Hell, just look at Weiss. “You can tell us what a disaster Tate was. That never gets old.”

“You're too mean to him,” Amata replies.

Kissing the top of her head, Freddie makes his apology. “I know, I know. Maybe I should thank him for the trouble he caused. We wouldn't be out here otherwise,” he leaves his arm draped over Amata’s shoulders. “But, ah,” he turns to Valentine. 

Valentine anticipates some sort of thinly veiled scorn at least. That even though Freddie said “you two,” he doesn't mean it, because really, it's only Robert he wishes to invite. Not the synth, frayed at the edges. But if Robert wishes to spend time with these people who remind him of home, Valentine isn't about to stand in his way. 

“If it's not too presumptuous, Mr. Valentine, we may have a concern where you could be of some help?”

That's enough to keep him interested.

\--

Valentine and Robert get a look at this ‘concern’ before dinner. Upstairs, in the Almadovar-Gomez’ room, a Nurse Handy plays with a boy of about six, with dark hair and dark eyes. He stands in his socked feet on the bed, the Handy floating in front of him.

“Simon says, touch your nose!” The boy calls out

“I am afraid, petite Michel, that iz quite impossible for me!”

“Michael, what did I say about standing on the bed?” His father scoops him up, depositing him back on the floor. He keeps his palm over the boy’s hair as Amata explains

“This is Curie. We found her in Vault 81.” Amata gestures to the Nurse Handy. “She's been traveling with us since then. She's been programmed as a laboratory scientist.”

“Oui, and I have learned so much since leaving the vault. The world is so fascinating,” Curie’s voice is full of life, even as the Handy can't make true expressions.

“She wants to learn more about the Wasteland, collect more data, discover new treatments. Her coding is all there. But neither of us are scientists,” Amata continues.

“Oh! But I could not ask for better traveling companions,” Curie insists.

“She wants to be human, well, to have a human body.”

“It would allow me to better interface with the environment. I appear to have hit a, how you say, road block with my studies? And I think feeling sensation, emotion, would allow for a breakthrough.”

“I'm sorry if this is presumptuous,” Amata rubs her hands together. “But most synths, well you just don't know they're synths until after they’re dead. But maybe you know a way, Nick? To transfer Curie’s consciousness into a human body?”

Beside him, Robert tenses, but says nothing. This has put him on edge, that much is fucking sure.

“I don't have any ties to the Institute, if that's what you mean.”

“No!” Amata exclaims waving her hands in dismissal, “only we were hoping maybe you knew someone, a scientist or engineer, who may be able to help?”

“I,” Valentine hesitates, “give me a little time to ask around.” In truth, he has a pretty good idea of who to ask. But the topic makes Robert uneasy, and he's not about to make a promise he can't well keep anyway. So, yeah, he can ask around.

“Ah! Thank you, thank you Monsieur!”

Valentine hopes he doesn't come to regret the offer, no matter how innocuous it may seem. 

\--

They eat together, downstairs at the Rexford. When Freddie offers him a glass of scotch, it doesn't even occur to the human that Valentine can't taste it. And in the normalcy of the interaction, Valentine accepts it by mistake.

“You, Robert?”

“Ah, no thank you.”

Robert talks little at dinner, but eats his meal. The two children more than make up for his silence, asking Valentine questions about being a synth first, and a detective next. He tries to smile and give age appropriate answers, about daring rescues and once cold cases. He leaves out anything that might give the children nightmares.

As Clara grows tired she pulls her jacket off her shoulders and over her face. Her father corrects her, saying it's not polite. She says she's tired of the mirelurk and how it sticks between her teeth. She wants Sugar Bombs instead. Her brother starts pulling the remains of her cake off her plate.

When Valentine looks back at Robert, his face is unreadable. Maybe the prospect of finding Curie a body has reminded him that Valentine isn't flesh and blood either. Maybe he misses his son, or home. Valentine wishes he knew.

Freddie offers Valentine another drink, even though he hasn't touched his. But this time Robert takes one too.

\--

By the end of dinner Robert is too tipsy to safely make it back to Diamond City. They’ll have to spend the night in Goodneighbor. Valentine puts down the caps for a room as Robert clings to his side. He's light enough, getting him up the stairs proves little trouble. Each word is so prettily slurred.

“m sorry.”

“Don't worry, Robert.” Valentine gets the room open, kicking the door shut behind them. 

He deposits Robert on one mattress before going to pull off his shoes. As his boots come off, Robert wiggles his toes.

“Nick?”

“Robert?”

“S not mad at me, are you?”

Valentine can't imagine what would have given him that impression. “I was thinking the other way around.”

Propping himself back up on his elbows, Robert stares at him for a moment. The soft glow of his own eyes casts shadows across Robert’s face, cutting down the line of his nose. Reaching forward, Robert grabs his tie, yanking him until he tumbles on top. They shift together until their lips meet. Robert kisses him with all the messy enthusiasm of drunkenness, to many teeth and too much saliva. Valentine likes it. Fuck, he likes it a lot.

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” Robert trickles through his kisses. “Dunno, dunno.”

“Nothing's wrong with you, Bobby.”

He shakes his head, his hair fanning out against the sheets. “Something is.”

“Why do you say that?” Valentine has some idea. As their weights settle, his leg slots in between both of Robert’s. Robert bucks back up into him.

“It's too easy for me to love you.”

Valentine doesn't have a clever response for that. At least, not one that won't break Robert’s heart. Robert's just cloudy-drunk and lonely, in need of affection. Valentine rucks his hands under Robert’s shirt, stroking his sides until he's squirming.

“Fu-ahhh,” Robert thrusts up, pressing his erection into Valentine’s stomach. 

Smiling, Valentine teases, “You're always ready to get moving, aren't you?”

“It's not my fault.” His fingers curl around Valentine’s arms. “Someone keeps encouraging me.”

“Get me some details to work off of, and I'll try and track the culprit down.”

Robert groans, “You're the worst.”

Valentine only gets as far as rolling Robert’s slacks off his hips before taking his cock in hand. A few sharp strokes and Bobby’s biting back his whines with ragged pants. Once he's come across Valentine’s hand and his own stomach, Robert melts against the rented mattress. It's quick and messy and routine. Something Valentine could get used to. He needs a cigarette.

Robert’s not quite asleep when Valentine crawls into bed. They have a second mattress, but Valentine would rather stay curled around Robert, feeling the pressure of his body against his chest. Robert shifts until they fit together, pulling Valentine's arm around his waist.

He's got dozens of questions, trying to get to the bottom of the things Robert still hasn't told him. Then again, he's got his secrets too.

“Bobby?”

“Hmm,” he sounds relaxed now, the tightly-wound anxiety of earlier gone. “What is it, Nick?”

“You told Amata you were mayor of a place called Little Lamplight? But those dates? You would have been-”

“Yeah, from when I was ten until just after fifteen.” Robert rolls over so they’re face to face. Well, Robert’s face to his chest. “It was, ah this place, in the Capital, where children went.”

Valentine had pegged Robert as an orphan right from the start, the way he is either unexpressive and quiet or blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. How he holds back then spills everything. That he hates depending on others, thinks himself weak for only being human. But Valentine had definitely not anticipated that he was the leader of some sort of lost child settlement, though that would explain a few other things.

“Why did you leave?”

“Had to. Rules were, at sixteen you were out. So, out I went. Lucy came too, even though she had some months left. She was the doctor...You know,” he laughs, “I was sort of scared of the sky for years. But Lucy said that was silly. We weren't born in the cave. I dunno where I was born though.”

“But Little Lamplight was your home?”

Robert sighs, “Something like that, like Little Lamplight. It never leaves you.”

Valentine knows guilt. He felt it before he was metal, and he can still remember its reverberations now.


	19. Never Were One for Clever Turns of Phrase

Weiss fidgets, sitting at the edge of Piper’s desk. Piper has to stretch her neck to see around him, because he's too oblivious to notice that he's in the way. His foot taps against the metal, shaking the whole desk. Pipers pens rattle. But she doesn't stop him.

“So, we’ve got to go back to Virgil,” Weiss rolls his unlit cigarette between his palms. Nat is upstairs in the loft, copying out tomorrow's edition by hand. The six of them, Piper, Weiss, Danse, Garvey, Nick, and MacCready, have crowded her out. She's already called down once that they're being too loud. Breaking her concentration.

They’ve already regained the Courser chip. Weiss has a gash down his neck, ending somewhere under his shirt collar. 

Going back to Virgil means another trip through the Glowing Sea. Which means another week that Weiss, Danse, and Nick are likely to be gone.

“He should have the information we need by now,” Weiss taps the unlit stick against the bottom of his boot. At least he's not shaking the desk anymore. The vibrations were giving MacCready a headache. “We’ll still need someone who can build the damn thing.”

“Struges could take a look?” Garvey offers.

Weiss winces, “Great, awesome. Sure, sure,” he puts the cigarette in his mouth next. When he pulls his lighter on autopilot, Piper leans up over the desk to snatch it from his lips.

In the corner, Danse hasn't said a word, strewing in his own self-righteousness, no doubt. But when he deigns to enter the conversation, that's when the watershed of Weiss’ energy breaks.

“Proctor Ingram would be-”

“No!” Weiss snaps, “How many times do I have to say no?”

Danse’s eyes narrow in response. “She already has the engineers and materials necessary-”

Weiss jumps off the desk and MacCready is ready to book it out of the office. Maybe even out of the Fens, because the last time he saw Weiss angry he painted the walls of Fort Hagen with the most dangerous merc the Commonwealth has ever seen. Tore him to pieces with his bare hands. So it doesn't matter one bit that Danse probably has forty pounds on him, all of it muscle, and is actually a soldier and not a pre-War suit jacket past his physical prime. Weiss is hopped up and wound tight.

Nick holds onto his bicep, maybe sensing MacCready’s instinct to run. He hadn't thought himself so obvious. 

Weiss doesn't throttle Danse though. He does pin both of his hands on either side of the paladin’s neck, close enough to brush his forearms against Danse’s skin. He makes the most of his height, looming over Danse, who stands stone still under Weiss’ gaze.

“They will kill my son.”

“You don't know that for certain,” Danse responds, his voice clear.

The rest of the room waits, holding their breath for the crash. Neither Danse nor Weiss seem to remember they're not alone.

Piper is the one brave enough to stop them, getting out of her chair and grabbing Weiss by the arm. She wrenches him away from Danse’s throat. “That's enough, Vishnu. Just tell him to leave and let's figure out what we’re doing.

Weiss looks at Piper, then back to Danse. 

This time, his voice is softer, more consoling. “They don't care about him. They don't care about you either, Danse. You're on the wrong side.”

“And whose side are you on?” Danse questions.

Weiss drops his hand so he can take hold of Piper’s. “Go then, if you don't agree. Go and tell them everything, if you think they're so just.”

Danse slides away from the wall. He's out the door and not one among them has any desire to stop him. The door slams closed. Weiss drops Piper’s hand.

“Val, you'll come with me to see Virgil,” he starts assigning tasks. “MacCready, are you in for another job, or just here as moral support?” Weiss smiles softly. 

“Yeah, I'm in.”

“Okay, I can pay you, same as last job?”

He doesn't need the caps anymore, not like that. MacCready shakes his head. “Not as a mercenary. I'm on board now, as a friend.”

MacCready flinches when Weiss rushes towards him. But it ends in an embrace that crushes his bones, Weiss kissing the side of his head. “Thank you.”

\--

They eat dinner on Weiss’ cap at the noodle bar. The food is warm and filling, so MacCready doesn't complain. Nick sits next to him, without a bowl of his own, occasionally poking him in the side with the more blunt end of a chopstick. Then smiling and feigning innocence. MacCready has to use a fork to eat, never did figure out the sticks. Weiss is the only one who can manage them with any finesse. 

“We’ll leave at dawn, yeah Val?” He claps Nick on the shoulder, angled towards the direction of the Dugout, not Publick Occurrences.

Nick’s hand comes off of MacCready’s thigh. “Sure thing, Weiss.”

Piper and Garvey are already gone, presumably back to the paper. Once MacCready finishes his second bowl, they're good to leave. He wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve.

The lights are out at the agency, Ellie wasn't in today at all. MacCready takes off his duster, hanging it on the hook next to Nick’s trench. They've started to form habits. Nick’s desk isn't any cleaner, still with case files scattered around. But the coffee cup on the desk is MacCready’s from this morning that he didn't bother to wash.

“I'll be gone about a week,” Nick wraps his arms around MacCready’s waist from behind. “Hopefully that's all.”

“Yeah, well, Piper and I will have our hands full too.” They've been asked to find circuit boards, lots of them. While they don't have the exact plans from Virgil yet, they know at minimum they need the boards and steel and lots of wiring. Crystals too if they can manage. Rather than just wait around, MacCready and Piper are going to hunt for materials while Garvey clears ground at Sanctuary.

MacCready turns in the circle of Nick’s arms so they're facing each other.Nick’s eyes cut through the dim of the room. If someone were to ask MacCready how he manages to forget Nick is a synth, he's not sure there's a plausible answer. Besides, no one has asked. Though, by now, they must all know. Maybe he would give some vague answer about Nick’s charm, or his smile, or how he still does silly things like going ‘beep boop’ when he doesn't want to answer Piper’s questions.

But none of that really answers the question.

Because the answer terrifies MacCready to his core. The answer is, there's nothing special about being human. There's not. His entire life has been divided between ‘us’ and ‘them.’ Citizens of Little Lamplight and Mungos. Wasters and the Brotherhood. Humans and synths.

His family and everyone else.

And Nick crosses that line, from ‘them’ to ‘us.’ He breaks right through without even trying. And that instability, this permeability of the line between them? It terrifies him. Because what else can get through? The envelope of his security has already been punctured with warmth and touch and kindness. Loving Lucy was always easy, how neatly she fit with him. Us. Loving Nick is easy too. The lines are not so starkly drawn.

But MacCready can't articulate what he means in words, because he never learned to put them together quite right. At least not in a way that would satisfy a man like Nick. With memories of college, procedure, and abstract reasoning. So, instead, he pulls at Nick’s shirtsleeves. “Let's go to bed.”

They crash up the stairs, tearing at each other's clothes. Nick has lots of clothing, in standard sizes that fit his unchanging frame. MacCready doesn't have to latch his belt so tightly anymore. 

Nick folds them into bed, his heavier metal bones on top. He holds his kiss and by now MacCready knows how to breathe him, how to suck down tobacco tinged air and let it fill his own lungs. 

He rolls his hips up off the mattress so Nick can pull his trousers off. His shirts he strips himself. Nick copies motions that he remembers from a different body, so precisely that they're hard to misinterpret. He unhooks his belt, sliding it out loop by loop, before folding it over once, playfully slapping at MacCready’s outer thigh.

“Hey!”

“What,” Nick smirks, “too adventurous for you?”

“Take these off,” reaching forward, MacCready grabs at the front of Nick’s slacks, sliding the button open. He's naked except for his boxers and Nick is still fully clothed. Seems awfully unfair.

Nick listens, sliding off his pants and letting them fall to the floor before climbing back on top of MacCready. MacCready slides his hands beneath Nick’s shirt, clawing at his casing, gentler where the edges are frayed. But if he's too soft with his hands, Nick won't feel it.

“I want,” MacCready pants, “I want…”

Nick palms his erection over top his thin boxers, the gray ones where the hem has gone, threads splintering out. The heat in his hand makes it through the fabric. The cheater.

“What do you want, Bobby?”

“I want you to put your fingers inside of me,” MacCready asks, unsure how Nick will respond. He squirms beneath him, keeping his hands moving across Nick’s scorched chest. “Please.” 

“Fuck, okay, yeah,” Nick rocks back, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt until it falls open. Sitting up, Robert opens the dresser drawer, fishing out the bottle of lubricant Nick keeps there. Nick finishes stripping. He’s a patchwork of casing and wiring, damaged and oddly beautiful.

MacCready drops the bottle into the sheets as Nick wraps himself around his body, nipping at his neck. “Let me get on top of you,” MacCready insists.

Smiling, Nick rolls them over in the bed, until MacCready straddles his narrow hips. MacCready kisses along Nick’s casing, using his teeth to draw soft groans. He grabs the bottle from the sheets, uncapping it with one hand, keeping the other against Nick’s chest.

“Give me your hand,” Robert asks.

Nick holds out his hand. “I'm starting to think you've done this before, Bobby.”

MacCready smiles at the name. He's come to like it, at least when Nick says it like that, full of affection. “And you accused me of not being adventurous.” After squeezing out a small amount of lubricant into Nick’s outstretched hand, MacCready tosses the bottle back onto the nightstand. “Warm it up won’t you?”

He has to shuffle his legs around to pull out of his boxers, cock springing free against his abdomen. Stroking himself, he waits for Nick to adjust his temperature. Nick’s metal fingers rub at one of his nipples.

“You're an awfully pretty picture, I hope you know that,” Nick sighs.

“Nah, but that's alright. You're not much of a looker yourself.” 

He raises his hips up so Nick can slide his hand between his legs. His hand is warm, stroking gently against one thigh before parting him, sliding the first finger into the knuckle. MacCready hisses in response, enjoying the sensation of being breached. Nick’s fingers are long and MacCready slides down on the first one.

“You like that then?” Nick asks, full of smug satisfaction even though this was MacCready’s idea.

“Yes, ah.” He raises his hips again, “Push up into me.”

Nick does, and they build a rhythm of hips and hands together. Robert doesn't touch himself, splaying his fingers across Nick’s chest instead, raking his fingers along torn false-flesh, enjoying the way it gives. It almost feels like skin, and the way Nick’s components run feels like a heartbeat, but everywhere along his skin, pulsing at a different intensity. The hum of almost-life. But somewhere along the line, this stopped being an artificial substitute for MacCready, and not only because he forgets.

His skin slaps against the casing, both of them responding to movement and sensation.

“Nick, oh.”

Metal digits moving from one nipple to the other, squeezing and turning up to the edge of too much pain, too sharp. He has to take one of his hands away from Nick, because it's too much to keep going, the pressure inside and out. He has to come before he drowns in this frustration. Stroking himself, he lets go, spilling onto Nick’s chest in heavy bursts. 

As he comes down, he realizes Nick has arranged him on his side, already wiping the cum off his own chest. MacCready’s chest feels scratched raw. It probably is, as rough as Nick can get with his uncased hand. But MacCready likes the burn.

They fall asleep curled together because tomorrow they’ll have to kiss goodbye, and it's never the last time.

\--

For the first time they cross the marketplace holding hands. No one but security is around to see them, and MacCready doubts they notice. Most are still blurry eyed and half asleep, the shifts having just turned over. MacCready keeps his fingers twined between Nick’s. It's a comfort.

Weiss waits outside Publick Occurrences, but he's not alone. By his side stands Danse, freshly shaven and out of his power armor. He runs his fingers through his hair nervously. 

“Fuck me,” Nick buries his face in his hand. “Of course he’s back. Like he never left.”

“Technically, I suppose he never did.” MacCready can't say he's thrilled with this turn of events. It is too much to hope for to be free of the Brotherhood so easily. Danse has had his claws in Weiss from the day they met. The reverse is true as well. And one day, they're going to rip each other to shreds.

Weiss blows out smoke, up towards the sky. “Right on time. Unusual for you, Val.”

Nick shrugs his shoulders, “Invested in a more reliable alarm clock.”

Really, it's only MacCready is used to keeping early hours.

Danse is staring at him, his eyes darting to Nick, then back to MacCready. He doesn't know, or is only now figuring them out.

“We should get going, then. See you soon, MacCready,” Weiss mock salutes.

“Okay,” MacCready grabs the lapels of Nick’s coat, coming up on his toes to kiss him, lingering longer than he normally might. Danse exhales so loudly, MacCready can hear it over the sounds of the market stirring to life. “Miss you, be safe.”

Nick returns the smile, coming down to peck at his lips one last time. “You too.”


	20. Lovely Garbage

At least they've departed Diamond City at a reasonable hour, instead the dead of night. But Valentine figures that has more to do with Danse than with Weiss, or rather, the two of them combined. They needed time to make nice. Valentine doubts either of them slept.

Danse says little as they make their way back towards the Glowing Sea. He keeps his eyes focused straight ahead. Not once does he call Valentine, “Synth,” but then again, he rarely speaks.

Weiss sets their pace, but it's slower than last time. He's running on fumes. Valentine feels responsible, because there are things he should have noticed sooner. Weiss has lost a good deal of weight. Valentine can see the gauntness in his face. The power armor can't hide that. But his voice is still too loud, too cheerful, though neither of his traveling companions are in good spirits.

By the time the sun hits the Western horizon, Weiss is too exhausted to argue for pushing forward. But they're nowhere near a settlement. They’ll have to sleep on the ground. Weiss and Danse climb out of their armor, leaving the suits as sentinels over their makeshift camp.

Valentine searches Weiss’ pack when he goes off to piss, and Danse, the fucker, finally says something.

“What are you doing?”

Valentine doesn't bother to lie. “Looking for his fucking pills.”

Danse shakes his head, “He needs them, you know.” He sounds unsure himself.

“We all know.” He finds two tins, one still sealed. The unwrapped one Valentine opens, counting out the doses. He tries to estimate how many Weiss has already taken today. Slapping his hand to his forehead he realizes, “He has another pack in his pocket.”

“Probably.”

Valentine almost screams at Danse, ‘why don't you do something?’ But then again, why has he done nothing, either?

“He's taking larger doses,” Valentine tosses the tins back into Weiss’ pack. Fuck if he cares if Weiss knows he's been rummaging through his shit. Maybe then his anger will turn into Valentine, and they can finally hash this out. “He's going to get himself killed.”

“He won't,” Danse says, as if he's never been less certain of anything in his life. “He wants to find his son.”

Valentine laughs, but doesn't say what he's thinking. Weiss cares very little about his son, no matter what he says. But he still cares a great deal about others thinking he does. Instead of arguing with Danse, Valentine pokes at the pile of kindling, before lighting it with his zippo. The leaves and twigs go up in smoke. Danse doesn't say anything, but helps him tend to the fire.

When Weiss comes back, he's glassy eyed and smiling, falling next to Danse with a plop. He throws one arm over Danse’s shoulder, kissing against his neck. Danse doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t smile either. 

The two men feign sleep with Valentine waits, using his resources to keep his hearing sharp and letting his eyes dim as to not attract attention. The fire is only embers now. He wishes he could make the conversation behind him indistinct. Even if he dislikes Danse, the words that pass between him and Weiss are private.

“You hate me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You do.”

“No I don’t.”

Both their bodies move.

“It’s okay to hate me.”

“Vishnu.”

Now Valentine has to avert his hearing. He tries to listen to the gentle step of a ragstag in the distance, the distinctive noise of four legs trotting along the packed earth, rather that the quiet, wet noises of the two men kissing in the dark. 

The ragstag runs, having heard the sound of a branch snapping, but it’s only a crow trying to strip the bark from a fragile twig. Then the beat of the crow’s wings as it flies away with its bounty well in beak. But the doe is long gone by then. The wind becomes the second loudest noise, as it runs through the grass. Then it’s the loudest, when Danse falls to sleep.

Weiss comes to sit next to Valentine instead, bending his knees and wrapping his arms around his legs.

“I’d say he’s not worth it,” Valentine holds out his lighter for Weiss to take from his hand. Weiss lights his cigarette and passes it back. “But that will never dissuade you.”

“You tried it before,” Weiss smiles into the darkness, “on a night like this one.”

“It wasn’t long ago, Weiss. Only a couple of weeks.”

“Well, excuse me if I have some trouble with chronology.”

Valentine laughs, “Not that much trouble.”

Weiss’ smile dips before he takes another drag of his cigarette. “You don’t remember me.”

Valentine shakes his head. “What?”

“Nevermind, I’m talking nonsense.” He scratches at his temple.

“You knew Nick Valentine?” The thought has crossed his mind before. That maybe they knew each other. Not this him, but the last iteration of him. The one who was flesh and bone. But honestly, Valentine isn’t sure he wants Weiss to keep going. To explain how he knew other-Valentine. The human might not have a self-preservation instinct, but Valentine sure as hell does. And right now it’s telling him to run. But Weiss is jumpy and afraid, so Valentine decides against any sudden movements. 

“I said, nevermind.” Weiss puts out his cigarette, only to light another. 

\--

This time Virgil doesn’t make them leave a hostage in front of the turrets. And Danse climbs out of his power armor without needing coaxing from Weiss. He is, however, visibly nervous through the exchange, not wanting to spend more time with the supermutant than absolutely necessary. 

“We should get that information to an engineer as soon as possible,” Danse says from across the room. He refuses to move from the entrance to the tunnel. 

Weiss sits at one of Virgil’s terminals, scanning through the files himself. There’s no way he could possibly make sense of the data. Valentine can’t parse it all either. They’re going to need someone with serious computing power and skill. And what Weiss is looking at doesn’t even account for the Courser data, just the plans for the teleporter that still needs to interface properly with the chip. 

Popping the holotape back out of the terminal, Weiss sticks it into Valentine’s pack. He keeps his voice low, lower than Danse could possibly hear from where he stands against the opposite wall. “You’ll take good care of that, won’t you?”

Valentine already knows where this is going next. “Let me guess, you have something else to take care of?” He has to speak a bit louder; Weiss can’t tune his hearing. Silly fleshy body.

“How observant,” he grabs his cigarette from the ashtray. He puts on that look like the wisdom he’s about to impart onto Valentine is of cosmic importance. “One way or another, the Brotherhood is going to know when we get into the Institute.”

“Because your pet toaster is going to tell them,” Valentine argues. 

Weiss shakes his head. “He won’t. Because, inevitably, someone else will. Before he even has the chance.” 

“They’re following you? Why? When they’ve got a prime informant at your side twenty-four seven?” 

“Don’t you get it?” Weiss shakes his head, “they’re already questioning Danse’s loyalties.”

“He doesn’t seem all that questioning, way I see it.”

Weiss shrugs, “That’s not what they think. But he’s still my hall pass inside that ship of his. So, I gotta get up there before he gets revoked.” Putting out his cigarette, Weiss stands and dusts off his trousers.

“Hall pass. Right, that’s what this is about.”

“One of the things,” Weiss turns away. “Are you ready to go, Danse?”

Danse nods, keeping his eyes averted from Valentine’s.

\--

Valentine has to make the trip up to Sanctuary alone. He considers stopping off at Diamond City on the way, but figures there’s no one there to see. Robert and Piper have been sent to retrieve whatever supplies the settlement might need to build a fucking teleporter. Garvey is at Sanctuary clearing space. 

Garvey’s there to greet him. He says that Piper and Robert just left on another errand yesterday, a problem up at Tenpines. Valentine has to admit, he’s a little heartbroken from the loneliness of travel. But Garvey slaps him on the back, says it’s good to see him well, and asks after Weiss.

“Another errand, should be around soon. But I have the data,” he pats his pack.

They walk together to see Sturges. So, maybe there was another reason Weiss wanted to be absent for this particular checkbox on the list of things to do. He knows the two men had a falling out. He also knows that sex was involved, so he’s not surprised. What he doesn’t know is what exactly it was Weiss did. Or didn’t do. But, knowing Weiss? Probably did. And he’s not about to ask now.

Sturges greets him with a smile and a handshake. He’s never been nervous around synths. Asked once or twice if he could go poking around in Valentine, with all the best intentions. Didn’t take it harshly either when Valentine politely declined. Garvey and Valentine follow him to the back of the house where he’s got a couple of terminals set up.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

Valentine can already guess this won’t be enough. Virgil’s set up in the cave was about as good as Sturges’, and all they could do there was open the data, not analyze it in any way. And while Struges might be good with power armor and broken buildings, he’s no computer expert. That’s for sure. He scratches the side of his head as he scrolls. 

“I’m not sure,” he goes to copy a chunk of code and the terminal freezes, waiting to respond to his command. Seconds pass, and the text highlights, but when he tries to paste it over into a separate file, the machine hangs again. “I don’t think this is happening…” Sturges admits. “I just wanted to compare two passages. Not even do anything fancy. But the machines I’ve got now just can’t handle the load.”

Garvey shakes his head, “So where does that leave us?”

“We need someone with terminals that pack more punch. Or someone better at wrangling code,” Sturges explains. “Maybe they could fix up the data, optimize it?”

“And we better come up with a lead before Weiss gets back.” They can't leave a foothold for the Brotherhood to work their way in. “The Railroad.”

Garvey frowns, “The Railroad?”

“If they can fiddle with synth brains, maybe they can get something out of the Courser chip. They have to be running some high tech stuff.”

“You don't know for sure?” Struges questions.

“I ain't one of their jobs, if that's what you mean. But I might know where to start.”

“Let's get to it, then,” Garvey puts out his cigarette against the wall, dropping the butt to the floor.

Valentine sighs, “This is going to sound bonkers, because I'm you know, me,” he gestures to himself. “But I think I need a tune up, or something. A day or two.” Maybe he does, or maybe he's just selfish and wants to see Robert before heading back downtown.

“Oh,” Garvey’s taken aback, “of course, I wasn't thinking.” He's entirely too apologetic. Valentine smiles to try and put him at ease. Garvey is the sort of man who will always put humans first, but he's not about to walk all over synths to make that happen. Being cruel just isn't in his bones.

\--

Valentine spends most of the evening plowing through his pack of cigarettes, because that’s his idea of some “maintenance.” He watches the sun set and the moon rise sitting at the edge of the hill. He likes the view of the Western wilderness better than that of Boston. He’s seen enough Boston to last both his lifetimes. 

The crows start winding down, growing quieter as the light fades from the sky. Boston used to always be bright, polluting the darkness. Behind him, Sanctuary’s strung up lights create a faint glow that keeps the stars dim. At ten, they switch over to spotlights only.

He curates the pile of ash next to him, arranging his spent filters into the shape of a flower in the dirt. Another hundred years and they might have trees again. He might function long enough to see them sprout, leaves bud, and trunks thicken. But he’s not sure. He can feel the looseness in his joints, the cracking of his casing, how his processing skips beats it should be striking. He’s not going to function forever, but he might get another hundred years. Might lose his hearing, or his sight, or his pressure sensors. That’ll probably be the next sense to go. He doesn’t take care of this body. Didn’t take great care of the last one either.

The final filter he sticks in the middle of his flower, right where the pistil would go. It’s only lovely garbage. 

He considers going into standby for the next few hours, right where he sits, not bothering to go back to the settlement. But even though he’s not really prey, with nothing on his alloy bones worth eating, there are always predators about. So he forces himself to his feet, his knee bending more than it should. There’s a comfort though, in his fragility. That he’s not going to be left all alone on this rock of a planet. Life is going to well outlast him.


	21. The Steam Runs Out Close Enough to the Station

The Tenpines settlers have a raider problem. And Piper, not missing a beat, chirps that they’re happy to help. MacCready rolls his eyes. Assistance, if given too freely, only breeds unrealistic expectations. Piper is about to turn and leave before MacCready grabs her shoulder, “We need supplies.”

“What?” Piper questions, “It’ll only take a couple hours.”

“And a couple dozen bullets. We need to at least break even here.”

Piper shakes her head, “We can’t ask these people for ammunition. We’re supposed to be helping them.”

She’s so naive sometimes. “We are helping them. And making sure we don’t get shafted in the process. Give me five minutes.” MacCready sticks his hands into the pockets of his duster and trudges back up the hill. He’s just going to see if there’s anything they can spare to lighten the burden on him and Piper. He’s only thinking practically. None of them know when Weiss will be back. If Weiss will be back. And if he’s lost to them, how are they supposed to carry on? Not with giving away their skills for free. Not for smiles and hearty thanks. They can’t eat gratitude. They can’t kill feral ghouls with kindness. All the good will in the world won’t put food in their stomachs and bullets in their guns. 

The settler who told them about the problem, Mae, looks stern and unsurprised. She buries the head of her hoe in the dirt, letting the handle lean against her side. “Change your mind about those raiders?”

MacCready shakes his head, “Do you have any 10mm ammunition? It’s for my partner’s gun.” He gestures to the sidearm in Mae’s waistband, “That’s a .32, so I don’t know if you have surplus?” He asks without asking. Being direct suits him better.

“So now the Minutemen are trying to extort us? Typical,” she’s resigned, walking back towards the shack, hoe over her shoulder.

MacCready follows behind. That could have gone better, but at least this way he’ll get the bullets. 

“Suppose we never hear from you again? Then we still have raiders,” Mae opens up a locked toolbox, filled with stray rounds, all mixed in together. “And we’ve lost the bullets too.”

Not having the skill to argue with her, MacCready can only mutter, “Thanks,” before bending down to sift through the messily stored ammunition. He finds sixteen rounds for Piper, shoving them into his pocket. There are .308s, but he hasn’t asked after those, so he leaves them in the box. “We’ll let you know when we’ve cleared out the raiders.”

Mae waves him off, assuming, no doubt, she’ll never see him again.

At the bottom of the hill, Piper sits on the edge of a concrete slab, lodged deeply in the dirt, her legs stuck out in front of her. There’s dried mud, crusted to the toes of her boots, marring the black. She turns her head as MacCready stumbles down the hillside. “Get what you wanted?”

He holds out his fist, full of bullets for her. “Take them.”

Turning away she replies, “I don’t want them.”

“Isn’t about what you want. Now let’s go shoot those raiders. Use these bullets to help the settlers. This is how the world works, Piper.”

Pushing herself up off the slab, she gets in MacCready’s face, “I know how the world works, Robert. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re trying to make the world better.”

“By killing people,” MacCready sighs, “forget it. I’ll sell them later.” He shoves the rounds back into his pocket. “How many shots do you have right now?”

“Twenty-eight,” Piper says without checking. MacCready takes her at her word.

Their destination is further north, at satellite station Olivia. The raiders have moved in, the settlers worry about them possibly advancing on the farm. MacCready will have to get a good look at it before formulating a plan. But a satellite means height, and providing the raiders aren’t complete idiots, that means they start with an advantage. 

Piper is small, good at using cover too. Accurate enough with her pistol and always aims for the largest part of a target’s body, usually their chest. She’s predictable. MacCready likes that, makes her easy to work with. If they have time, later, he’d like to see her work a rifle. It would suit her. Providing she places her shots well, the recoil won’t be a hindrance. 

But as they approach the station, MacCready asks her to wait. Using the scope on his rifle he peers in on the raiders loitering on the stairs, sharing a cigarette between them. Once he takes the first shot, he and Piper will be in trouble. He can’t see if there is anyone else behind the station, but he can see the top of a wooden shack tucked in behind the concrete building. There may be more raiders in the bunker too. He wishes he had a better view. 

“Okay, here goes nothing,” MacCready sighs.

Piper asks, “What’s the plan?” 

“Shoot them until they’re all dead.”

Sometimes, that’s all you have to work with.

\--

The walk back to Sanctuary is fine, really. Piper is in good spirits, because they won. They helped the settlement and Mae is satisfied and seems to think, now, maybe, that those bullets MacCready took from her were well spent. He’ll sell them later. 

With the sun setting, the ground turns amber. There used to be a song about that, wasn’t there? About America being amber, like a hardened rock, but pretty. Purple too. MacCready’s not sure. He didn’t like the history books they had at home. 

He walks with his arm thrown over Piper’s shoulder, because she makes him feel better about himself. Even if she doesn’t agree with him always, she doesn’t hate him either. Just accepts that they are two different people. He doesn’t have to impress her any. 

By the time they make it back to Sanctuary, most everyone has gone to bed. The sun is down and the turrets turned on, keeping their humming, fume-filled watch over the sleeping settlers. The machines recognize him and Piper, and permit them to walk straight through as they head to the workshop.

No one sleeps in the torn up home anymore. Workbenches line the perimeter, stuck against every exterior wall. And Sturges has a bank of terminals hooked up inside. The roof is full of holes and most everything has been scrapped. The newer buildings they’ve been putting up house most of the beds now. But the working refrigerator and cooking stove are still in this first building Preston and Sturges commandeered when they started the settlement with the Longs and Mama Murphy. 

Trying to keep quiet, Piper rifles through the fridge, looking for anything leftover, so they don’t have to eat more Dandy Boys. She comes up with a plate full of cold meat that MacCready can’t identify. She takes a big bite out of one of the strips before holding the plate out for MacCready. He grabs two pieces of what is probably molerat before biting down. 

Piper lets the door close too quickly, the crash sounding louder than it should in the stillness of the night. She tries to stifle her laugh, her mouth still full. 

“You’re an idiot,” MacCready smiles.

“Amn’t. I just feel good today.”

“Yeah, why’s that?” He takes another bite.

Piper leans against the wall, “Because, you don’t treat me like a goddamn child,” she takes another bite. 

“Piper, you’re like,” he can’t come up with a tactful way to say it, “two or three years older than me?” Sure, MacCready thinks her view of the world is rosier than his. But that comes down to circumstances. He doesn’t think either of them would deny that Piper’s had an easier run of it, if she knew all the details of MacCready’s childhood. But they’ve both made it this far in a world always trying to kill them. 

She waves off his comment, “Vishnu keeps trying to send me in the opposite direction of where the action is. He doesn’t understand that I’ve seen more of these Wastes already than he’ll manage in the rest of his days.”

MacCready swallows the meat. It’s hard to chew cold. “I don’t doubt it. But that’s because he cares about you.”

“He cares about all of us. I’m the one he treats differently,” she shoves the last bit of her molerat into her mouth, puffing out her cheeks. Her mood has only soured a little. 

There are footsteps just outside. Nick pokes his head into the kitchen, “If you could try and be a little louder, I think there’s some ghouls over in New Hampshire who haven’t heard you yet.”

“What’s a New Hampshire?” MacCready jokes.

Nick sighs, “Did you have a good trip?”

Piper responds, “Yeah, killed a bunch of raiders up at Olivia. And Robert said he thinks I’d do well with a rifle.”

“He just wants to make you carry his shit,” Nick says, settling in and leaning against the counter next to MacCready. One of his arms crosses behind MacCready’s back, skimming against his duster. 

MacCready rolls his eyes, “Now you’re onto me.”

Nick’s hand drops to MacCready’s hip, curling into his coat and rucking up his shirts just an inch, on the side that Piper cannot see. “Been for awhile, Bobby,” Nick’s tone is unmistakable. 

“Okay,” Piper shakes her now empty hands in front of her face, “I get the idea, I’m getting out of here.” She does peek her head back into the fridge one last time to grab a bottle of purified water. 

“Didn’t mean to put you out,” Nick offers apologetically. 

“Don’t lie to me, Nick,” she walks out with her water.

MacCready scrunches his face, “You didn’t have to make her feel unwelcome.”

But Nick shifts, turning so his body is over MacCready’s, keeping him against the countertop. “Yeah, I did.” Dipping his head down, he touches his lips to MacCready’s, coaxes his mouth open with licks and bites, waiting on MacCready to breathe. 

MacCready pulls away before things get too far, Nick’s hands drag under his shirt, kneading against his ribcage in contrasting textures. His encased hand is gloriously warm against his skin, chasing away the cold that slips under his sweater. 

“I take it you missed me?” MacCready teases. 

“Something like that. I got accustomed to you squirming at night.” He nips at MacCready’s ear, making him suck down air, “And that too, I missed your noise.”

“Awful needy for a broke down blender, aren’t you?”

“We’ve got about three hours until the morning shift starts getting up, you want to spend that time making cute jokes about appliances?”

MacCready laughs, “I guess not.”

“So, come on,” Nick leads him by the hand out of the kitchen and into the now unused bedrooms. There are still cots left over. Sturges and the others have made nicer ones for the new building, leaving these behind for a later date, should the settlement expand. Nick starts pulling his duster off, dropping it to the floor before going for MacCready’s sweater. 

MacCready grunts, “Just because everyone’s supposed to be asleep,” Nick gets him shirtless. When the wind passes over the hole in the ceiling, MacCready shivers, “doesn’t mean they are.”

“So we better give them a damn good show if they’re stupid enough to walk in,” his hands are already on MacCready’s belt, pulling it loose to drop his slacks in a heap. Together, they work Nick out of his clothes too, tossing them aside. 

They fall into the cot together, MacCready on top of Nick. He slides his thigh against Nick’s, soaking up the heat along his casing as they kiss. His hand slides into the gap at Nick’s waist, he’s even warmer inside, where the metal is unprotected by insulation.

“Careful, don’t burn yourself.”

MacCready nods, putting his lips back against Nick’s, his fingers only lightly brushing what would be too scorching to hold. His erection grinds against Nick’s thigh; he’d be happy just with this, or Nick’s hand on his cock. Or anything really, as long as he can keep breathing.

Dimly, MacCready knows, in his drunkenness at Goodneighbor, he told Nick how he feels. And he knows Nick doesn’t feel the same, having brushed off the simple words with silence. Not even acknowledging their existence. Oh, but he feels it in his bones now, brushing up against Nick’s components. Because this isn’t so easy to ignore. Nick is a synth. He loves Nick. The two can co-exist.

He loves Nick’s stupid jokes and the way he kisses him like he’s the air Nick doesn't need, but undoubtedly wants, coiling around his wires. And he loves that Nick is stupid enough to to put himself on Piper’s bad side just to get him into bed. And he loves that Nick cares about him enough to not point out that he doesn't love MacCready back.

“I want to suck your cock,” Nick growls into his ear.

“Fu-” MacCready shudders, “okay.” He's not sure how this is supposed to work, but he’ll follow Nick’s lead on this one.

“Here, get on the bed, flat on your back.” Nick kisses MacCready’s shoulder before sliding out of bed. 

Doing as he's told, MacCready flops onto his back, waiting for Nick to return. He strokes his hand absentmindedly over his cock, ghosting fingers over warm skin. Lifting his head, he tries to get a look at what Nick is doing. He sort of wishes he hadn’t.

“Are you drinking lube?”

There’s a soft, gurgling sound as Nick swishes the lubricant around in his mouth. “I thought you were supposed to be observant?” Nick drops the capped tube back into the pile of their clothes. “I don’t produce any saliva.”

MacCready thinks about it for a moment, “Oh, right…”

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Nick crawls back into bed. Grabbing MacCready’s thighs, he hoists one leg over his shoulder, dropping MacCready’s calf back down. “Hand me that pillow.”

Pulling the pillow from under his head, MacCready hands it over. Nick folds it in half before sliding it under MacCready’s hips to raise them slightly. “I don't have a gag reflex either, so don't worry about a thing.”

“Righ-ahhhhh!”

Nick takes him all at once, straight to the root. Oh, it's strange, strange, strange. Gently warm and slick all the way down on one side, exposed to the open air on the other, where Nick’s neck comes apart. His throat doesn't constrict, but his lips tighten around MacCready’s erection before drawing back, perfectly smooth with the lubricant. Without hesitation, Nick takes him back down, and again, again. MacCready’s foot taps on instinct against Nick’s back as he works his cock.

The pressure and heat build in his abdomen, tightening coils of want. Nick’s hand brushes against his stomach, scratching fine lines with metal digits. MacCready curls his toes trying to hold on, hold back, hold something. So his hand drifts down Nick’s face, to his throat. MacCready feels his own living pulse, through the pads of his fingers, brush against his cock, still down Nick's throat.

Oh. Oh.

“Nick!” He can't suppress his shout as he comes, fast and shuddering inside Nick. Behind his eyelids he whites out, his fingers still twitching at Nick’s neck. He can still feel it, the layers of organic and inorganic as they merge. As Nick pulls off slowly MacCready relaxes his hand, letting it fall to his side.

Nick laughs softly, his voice slightly altered, “Good?” He kisses the inside of MacCready’s thigh. 

MacCready’s not sure his voice is his own, “Yeah.”

“Give me a second, I've got to clean up.”

Tilting his head, MacCready sees in the dim light what Nick means. His cum leaks from Nick’s neck, starting to run down his collarbone.

“Wait,” MacCready pushes himself up on his elbows, “You lie down. Let me do it.”

Nick starts shaking his head, but gets into bed. Grabbing his boxers and throwing them on, MacCready ducks out into the kitchen. He wets a clean rag, not knowing what else he’ll need. In the end, he just heads back to Nick.

He sits close to the head of the bed. Nick’s eyes are the brightest thing in the room. “Let me know if it hurts.”

“It won't.”

Before he starts, he leans over to kiss Nick, long and slow, tasting his cum mixed with the lubricant and nicotine that's permanently stained Nick’s lips. He holds the taste in his mouth, odd as it is. That's them.

He’s gentle with the cloth.

“Start inside,” Nick instructs, “work your way out.”

MacCready obliges, wiping Nick’s internal cording first, before starting on the edges of his skin. He doesn't get all the lubricant out, but figures Nick’s more concerned with the sticky cum. Tenderly, he cleans Nick, liking the intimacy of it. And that Nick smiles through the process, watches him with appraising eyes. When he's finished, he pats Nick’s neck with his fingers, making sure it's dry.

“Even if you don't feel the same way,” he feels like he should say it. Now, while he's sober and Nick looks happy. If Nick can be happy, he can love. So that's not the trouble here. “I love you. I don't expect you to feel the same, but I do.”

“Come here,” Nick pulls him back down into bed, wrapping his arms around MacCready’s frame as their weights settle together. His eyes dim. “I want to tell you something.”

MacCready’s heart speeds up in the darkness, “Okay.”

“You know, how when I woke up, I didn’t know I was a synth. I thought it was still before the bombs. That maybe I had just had one too many, or that some crim had caught up with me, but failed to finish the job.” Nick pauses, “what I’m saying, is it’s still not easy for me. Sorting out the memories. Which feelings and thoughts are mine, which are his, and does it matter one way or another if I can tell the difference?”

Keeping his hand curled against Nick’s chest, MacCready asks, “So, what are you thinking now?”

“That I have a piece of unfinished business...I...he...Nick Valentine, before the war, was working on this case. A gangster named Eddie Winter. He wanted to live forever. Nick Valentine never got to him.”

MacCready doesn’t understand, not really, other than the spectre of unfinished business. “If that was before the war, that means he’s already dead?”

“No. He underwent this...experimental radiation treatment. Baked him inside and out. Probably turned him into the world’s first ghoul. No, he’s alive. And I know it. But I need to find the code to get into his bunker.”

Nick explains how he needs these old holotapes, from the police station. Maybe more than one. But he knows the tapes exist. A sort of code between Winter’s goons. Then maybe he can get into Winter’s safehouse. They were close to cracking it when his memories cut off. The trail goes cold. But Nick wants to pick up the case again. He needs this, for closure. But MacCready doesn’t really understand what an old world gangster has to do with this world’s synth. But maybe that’s not really the point. 

“Okay, let’s find those tapes.”

Nick drags his finger along MacCready’s cheek, “Thank you.”


	22. Hard to Pass When You Don't Show Up For the Exam

Valentine stops short of telling Robert about Jennifer. Of the wife almost-him, almost-had. Not because it seems too personal, too close, but because of the low hanging fog over his feelings. It wasn’t this body that loved her. And it wasn’t exactly this mind, either. Because the mind is a lot of things, electric pathways and chemical reactions blended with socialization and experience. So this Nick Valentine isn’t that Nick Valentine, even if sometimes Valentine wishes they were, because that would make everything easier to parse.

More than that, Valentine doesn’t want Robert to think this a precondition of his affections. Because if Valentine knows anything, he knows that finding Jennifer’s killer, bringing him to justice, isn’t going to be some magic spell. Abra-fucking-cadabra! It won’t lift the curse. Turn him into some fairytale prince that’s about to sweep Robert off his feet, once the deed is done. Valentine knows he wasn’t that sort of man before he was metal, and he sure isn’t that man now.

\--

They’re on their way to BADTFL. Weiss is still off the radar. Whether or not he’s switched sides, they’ve got no way of knowing. They might not know until it’s too fucking late to do anything about it, with the Brotherhood knocking down their doors. But Valentine still believes in Weiss, that he has the Commonwealth’s best interests at heart. Only, sometimes, he’s a fuck up that thinks with his cock instead of that supposedly-brilliant brain of his.

“Raiders,” Robert smiles as they get close to the offices. He’d much rather fight raiders, Valentine knows by now. Even if ghouls go down easier than bloatflies, for the most part.

It doesn’t take much for them to clear the entrance. Just two women smoking outside. Robert snipes one from a ways off, the second drops her cigarette in fear, Valentine forcing three shots into her chest. They’re not loud enough to alert anyone inside.

The building is still fairly intact, and there doesn’t appear to be any raiders in the lobby. Maybe the two outside were supposed to be the ones standing guard in here.

“Where are these tapes going to be, Nick?”

“Chief’s computer, follow me.” Nick knows the layout of the building, he can see flashes of where to turn, an impulse of where he’s supposed to travel over well-worn paths. This isn’t his precinct. But he’s been summoned here before. To examine evidence, to drop off reports.

They keep quiet as they approach the door. On the other side he can hear raiders chatting. Maybe four of them all together. He holds up the number for Robert to see. Robert nods, unholstering his pistol.

Once the door opens, they’ll have to start shooting, only a second or two with the element of surprise. Because he knows this building better than MacCready, he goes first.

When the door swings open, the raiders jump up. Valentine only hopes they’re a little cloudy with drink or drugs. Something to slow their reflexes. But Robert darts past him, firing off two shots at nothing at all before ducking behind a desk. Well, Valentine hasn’t seen that move from him before. Maybe because they’re going in blind.

Valentine crouches behind a different desk, but a raider is already coming at him with a crowbar raised. He’s three steps away before Robert pops up, hitting him in the jaw with two 10mm rounds. Valentine accepts the first raider as dead, and starts firing at the next woman over, unsteady on her feet with a pipe rifle in her dirty hands.

Robert hurries closer, and when the third raider tries to aim for him, Valentine takes his shots. Robert takes one too. Then three into the final man. He’s running away, terrified that his friends are already dead. Robert puts him down, the bullets severing through his neck.

Valentine looks for the right terminal.

While Valentine waits for the machine to boot up, Robert kicks over one of the bodies of the floor. Crouching down, he goes through the raider’s pockets, pulling out some loose caps and a pack of cigarettes. He moves on to the next body, this one sprawled over one of the desks.

With the machine on, Valentine starts looking for the right file, or where the right files might be. He’s fairly certain not all the holotapes are going to be in this office, they were spread out during the investigation, different districts handling the short-term incarceration of Winter’s goons. But some of the tapes are sure to be here.

He pulls up the record on Winter’s End. It’s all there, rendered in green on the screen, just-short-of-black. Valentine feels something firing in his brain as he reads his own name. Detective Nikolai Valentine, leading the Winter’s End operation. Buried in the text, a throw-away line, really, Winter accused of killing Detective Valentine’s fiancee, Jennifer Lands.

Nick doesn’t know what her face looks like. No matter what he does, her features won’t hang together properly. For a time, he doubted she was real at all. But this report proves otherwise. She was real. Winter killed her. The ache he sometimes feels has its origins in another body, who held her close and promised to protect her. A body that failed to keep its promises.

“Find what you were looking for?” Robert leans over his shoulder, a steady weight against Valentine’s back. Nick clicks over to the next screen. He has what he needs, ejecting the holotape from the terminal. It takes eight seconds to pop out. These machines were never quick.

“Yeah, carry this in your pack for me, will you?” Valentine asks.

Robert grumbles but takes the tape, slipping it into his bag.

“Find anything good?” Valentine lights a cigarette at the desk. Quincy is a long way off, and that’s where the last of the tapes are. But it’s swarmed with Gunners, has been for months. He’s not entirely sure how they’ll get it. That much space and open air under Gunner control, it’s like walking into a trash compactor, ready to grind them to bits. Hopefully Robert will be able to fashion some sort of plan to get them in and out.

Robert passes him the pack of cigarettes he pocketed earlier, they’re Valentine’s preferred brand. He sits on the edge of the desk, putting his feet on the armrest of Valentine’s chair. “This where you used to work? I mean, the human version of you?”

Valentine shakes his head, “No, but I knew it.”

He knew a lot of things he can half-remember. Grabbing Robert’s ankle, he rubs his thumb over the fabric, liking it when Robert smiles.

\--

They approach Quincy from the south, keeping a wide berth around the city proper. Robert uses his scope to pick out the locations of their snipers. In the belltower, over the roofs, in the little shacks the former residents set up as the settlement grew and grew. Now they’re mostly dead, except for the handful that made it out, whittled down even further as they crossed the Commonwealth to Sanctuary. So few of them are left. But Gravey did what he could. He’s a good man, stronger than he thinks, to have made it so far.

“There are too many to fight them,” Robert drops his pack. They’re hidden behind a crashed semi, about a quarter-mile from Quincy proper. The gears in Robert’s head are turning, as he tries to come up with a plan of attack. “We don’t have enough ammunition, and they’re heavily fortified.” He takes off his duster, dropping it on top of his pack. “I’m going to sneak in there, grab your tapes.”

Wait, what?

“That’s not any better of a plan!” Valentine interjects. If anyone should be putting themselves at risk for this, it’s him.

Robert shakes his head. “We wait until the sun sets and I’ll go. I’m smaller, quieter, and quicker. It’s gotta be me.”

There’s logic to what Robert says. His plans are always sound. But the irrational part of Valentine, the human part he’ll never quite shake, doesn’t want to shake, screams that Robert is a fucking idiot. These are Gunners, they may know him. If he were caught...

“I can’t let you risk yourself like this. Not on my account,” Valentine argues.

Robert is already rearranging his shirts, putting the darkest, a navy blue, on top. He won’t be warm enough without his coat, but the tan will be too bright in the darkness. Valentine’s coat is no better.

“Come on, let’s have something to eat before I go.”

They sit on the ground, Robert tucked into Valentine’s shoulder. He eats a pack of Dandy Boys, offering pieces to Valentine. He takes one, just so he can put his mouth on Robert’s fingers as he feeds him. Shifting his heat around, Valentine keeps him warm as long as he can manage.

Once the sun goes down, Robert sticks his pistol into the waistband of his pants. He only takes what bullets are already in the clip. “If I have to shoot, it won’t make a bit of difference to have more rounds.”

“It should be me,” Valentine repeats.

“But you know it can’t be,” Robert smiles, “you’re noisy as shit.” Robert comes up on his toes to kiss him. His hand at Valentine’s cheek, his pinky finger dips inside. “Love you.”

He scrambles away faster than Valentine can not-say the same.

Fuck.

\--

There’s nothing for Valentine to do but wait. So, he waits. He waits for one hour, then two. The only comfort he has is that he hears nothing from Quincy. No gunshots, no screams. But that’s not a guarantee that Robert is safe. He could have been muffled, tackled from behind. Or a sniper’s silenced shot, a small caliber pistol. His own little 10mm used against him. Valentine rests his head in his hands and tries to not think about the myriad of ways Robert might die.

He remembers something else. Something from other Valentine. Putting his hand on the specialist’s bare thigh. Whispers of, “This is okay.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, if you don’t want it to.”

This is okay.

“I know you’re still hurting.”

There’s the snap of twisting grass that Valentine can hear before he sees Robert pop up. His body is shaking. He’s far enough from Quincy now that he breaks into a run, his hair flying up with each step, his cap gone. By the time he reaches Valentine, Robert is breathing heavy. Valentine steps towards him, duster thrown over his arm. The temperature has dropped seven degrees since Robert left. When they reach each other, Valentine wraps Robert in his coat, then into his arms, holding him close so he can siphon the heat.

He can't tell for certain if Robert is shaking on account of the cold or because he’s afraid. Asking seems too personal, too private. So Valentine just holds him until the tremors stop, Robert’s head against his chest.

“I got them,” Robert mumbles into his shirt. “I got the tapes. We should be able to figure out the code.”

“Thank you,” Valentine says, kissing the top of Robert’s head, “thank you.”

\--

Valentine doesn't have to breathe, but sometimes, he's forced to mime the action. Because it feels right, instinctual. Like curling Robert against his body, or lighting a cigarette. These are habits from when he was flesh, though he only ever knew Robert with his synth body, already in disrepair. Even though he doesn't have the chemical addiction that makes him reach for a cigarette. Even though he doesn't need the oxygen.

Valentine stands before the door that will take him to Eddie Winter, and he breathes. Robert’s hand grazes against his back.

He punches in the code with his left hand, feeling as the buttons depress. That its tactile, that he can feel the keys, seems somewhat fitting. Each button beeps, sharp in the quiet of the tunnel. There's the low sound of dripping water underneath the brighter tone. He wonders if Winter can hear inside.

The door clicks open and Valentine pulls the handle. Inside, Winters stands, his hand curled around his sidearm. He did it, the bastard did it. The world’s first ghoul. Valentine shakes his head. What a life he must have had, in this room, 15x15, full of creature comforts, a television, when there's no broadcast, a radio, that might only ever play twenty songs. Two-hundred ten years of this. Torture already, Valentine thinks, but Winter deserves more.

“Shit,” Winter pulls his cigarette from his mouth, dropping it into his ashtray. Having seen Valentine, he seems less concerned with his personal safety. “Is this what the world’s come to? A bunch of fucking robots running the show. Shit, worse than I thought,” he laughs, shaking his head.

“I'm here for-” Valentine starts, but Winter cuts him off.

“Money? Supplies? A can of oil? What do you need? So I can supply and you can go on your merry way. Hell of a thing to crack my code. But I suppose it's easy for a computer, eh?” Winter leans around, catching sight of Robert behind Valentine. “Oh! So there are humans left, eh? Scrawny ones, I guess. So which one of you is in charge? Because my money is on,” Winter looks them both up and down, “robot overlords with rent-boy tag-alongs?”

Valentine rushes forward, grabbing Winter by the front of his shirt and throwing him against the wall. Pinning him in place, Valentine shouts, “Shut the fuck up Winter! Listen!”

“So, ah, you know my name? Still famous after all this time. Always knew I was bigger than this town, bigger than history.”

“You fucking know me, Winter,” Valentine retorts, “I couldn't end you then, but I'll end you now,” Snatching Winter’s pistol from his shaking hand, Valentine puts it to the ghoul’s temple. “I've been waiting a long time for this.”

“Woah, woah, let's be reasonable now. What is it you want? What you really want?” The shakes have gone from Winter’s hands, creeping up his limbs. His heart is pounding in his chest, Valentine can feel every beat.

“I want you brought to justice, you son of a bitch,” Valentine moves the gun from Winter’s temple to under his throat. “I'm going to fucking kill you, but you better know my name first.”

Something clicks in Winter’s head, his expression growing dark. “You're that detective, what was your name? The one with the pretty girl. From the Courthouse. I remember her. Don't remember the metal bits, though.”

“Fuck you,” Valentine pulls Winter back from the wall, smashing him against it again, making the false wall in front of the concrete and metal tremble, sending Winter’s worthless knick knacks skittering on the tables. “I'm Detective Valentine. You killed Jennifer Lands!” His voice grows strangled, harsh.

For a moment he's no longer himself. He's the other him. And he sees Jennifer’s face, when so often it eludes him. Her pretty smile, short hair falling into hazel eyes. She laughs and says she loves him, so so much. She can't wait for the wedding. Even though she shouldn't, she's going to wear white. She bites her tongue. Valentine says she'll look good in white. She'll look good in anything.

“I killed a lot of people,” but Winter’s bravado is gone. He must know this is his end. That Detective Valentine is about to finish what he started. “But I remember her.”

Valentine doesn't want to hear anything more. He pulls the trigger when Winter’s Adam's apple bobs. The bullet is a large caliber, and it breaks apart his jaw, coming back out through the top of his head and lodging in the ceiling. Ghoul's bleed. Somehow, Valentine hadn't even thought of that, red staining the silver of his right hand, running down until soaking into the fibers of his trench. Fragments of bone catch in Winter’s shirt. His body slumps to the floor when Valentine releases it. He looks up, a halo of blood painted on the white plaster ceiling.

Fuck.

This is supposed to mean closure. But it sure as hell doesn't feel like it.

_You're such a bombshell, Jennifer. You should find a man with a prettier face. Fewer pounds, less wear and tear._

_Nick, you're a terrible liar, you know. As if you don't like a pretty girl on your arm._

_She stands in front of his bathroom mirror. When they're married, he'll buy something bigger. Big enough for two. She uses the flat iron to press her hair straight. Her bare toes tap against the tile._

_You're going to be a horrible cheat, he smiles at her from the bed, I just know it. I can't keep up. Not at my age._

_Jennifer kisses him before she has to leave, down to the courthouse. The aides start early. She says he could be five hundred, and she’d still want to take him for a spin. Young men just don't have the same sort of appeal. Her laughter is ugly, but he loves it._

_Love you, Nick._

Valentine is outside, the sun overhead is high. Just a little past noon. They were underground for a long time. Yeah, he supposes they were. These things always take more hours than he thinks. Maybe something is broken in him, the part that accounts for the time passing. He's not sure where to look.

“Nick?” It's Robert. Robert.

Robert saw everything. And he's still here, waiting for Valentine to react. He's got both their packs swung over one shoulder, his blue eyes open wide. How long has it been? Since he shot Winter? Shit. He doesn't remember coming outside.

“Yeah, sorry, my mind was somewhere else.”

“It's okay,” Robert shakes his head, “it's okay.”

Valentine breathes, even though he doesn't have to. “I should tell you something, about me.” He takes the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, lighting one. “The other Valentine, the one before the war...”

Robert nods. He's still keeping his distance, probably a tactical choice. Valentine doesn't blame him.

“There's a memory I haven't told you about.”

“I figured you haven't told me most of them.”

“But this one is important.” He takes a drag, “Nick Valentine had a girl. Jennifer. They were going to get married. Fuck, he loved her so much.”

“So you love her too,” Robert says it like it’s fact. “And Winter killed her.”

Valentine shakes his head, “half the time, I can't even remember what her fucking face looks like. So no, she's not my girl, not like she was his.”

“But you must care?” Robert drops the packs to the ground. “You...sounded like you care.”

“When I looked at Winter’s fucking mug, I could see her face so clearly. But already, I can't remember it again. The point is, I thought this would be it. This would bring me closure, or at least...I don't know. It was a stupid idea. That somehow finding him, finishing what Nick Valentine started, would make me feel...whole.”

Robert’s lips part, he doesn't know the words. That's okay, though. Valentine doesn't like him for his charm. Not in the traditional sort of way. “How do you feel?”

Valentine puts out his cigarette under his shoe. “Not much different, truth be told. But thank you. You didn't have to do this, Bobby.”

“You're such an idiot,” Robert smiles, “I did have to do this, but that's okay.” Still, he remains rooted in place. “But this is why, isn't it?”

“What do you mean? ‘This is why?’”

“Um, ah,” he's less confident now. “Why you don't, you know, sh-never mind.”

Valentine feels like an ass. But Robert’s not wrong. “Why I don't know if I love you?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Finally, Robert steps forward, his hands in the pockets of his duster. Closer, Valentine can tell he smells like blood. The scent must be on him too. “Do you think we should end this? Really? Is that what you think?”

Valentine doesn't have to breathe, but he does it anyway. “No, I don't want that.”

“Me neither,” Robert grabs the front of his trench, one hand coming up to his neck. He wraps his hand, all small, delicate bones, around Valentine’s throat, but he doesn't sink his fingers. “What did you look like, before you were this?”

“Ugly,” Valentine’s only half joking. He wasn't pretty. Not the way Robert is. For all his broken teeth, his scrawniness, ill kempt, and dirt stained, Robert would have been a fucking sight pre-War. Maybe one of those beautiful boys who always got into trouble, because they could never find work. All the jobs were gone.

“So the way I figure,” Robert smiles, “there's not a whole lot of difference.”

Valentine laughs.


	23. Tremors over the Surface of the Water

MacCready tells himself many lies. First and foremost among them, that he doesn't care that Nick can't love him. Because really, it was his mistake.

They hold hands on their way back to Sanctuary. Fingers twined together. The sun starts setting and Nick says they should stop. No use traveling at night. And if Weiss is back, “He can wait another fucking day on us.”

MacCready forgets to eat, because the little abandoned diner has a mattress behind the bar. They have to diffuse the mines strewn about, but after they do, he can't help but pull Nick down, spreading his legs and holding Nick’s hips between them.

They don't have a change of clothes, and MacCready isn't really hard, but he wants Nick to grind down against him, to make him warm all over. Spring will come, eventually. But for now it's still cold. He kisses against Nick’s throat, then his lips. And tells himself he doesn't care.

He doesn't care because even if it's not love, or anything like it, at least for Nick, it feels good. He feels cared for, when Nick slips his hand under his shirt, and mumbles unintelligible things against his skin.

\--

When they do reach Sanctuary, Weiss is there. And Danse. Great. Weiss smiles and claps Nick on the back. He says he's happy to see them both in one piece. But he's really got to talk to Val for a second, so if they could be excused.

That leaves MacCready behind with Danse. What a disaster. “I should, ah, check on our supplies,” he tries to make an excuse.”

Danse’s hands are stuck in the front pockets of his jeans. His hair is strewn to one side. “Yes, if, I,” he shakes his head, “I should get dressed.” But he's fully clothed. MacCready figures it must be something with the power armor. Like Danse is never dressed outside of it. But MacCready is not going to argue if it lets them split up. He doesn’t want to be alone with Danse.

MacCready heads for the garage, throwing open his pack. Nick still has his over his shoulder. He should have taken both. Who knows how long he’ll be with Weiss. What it is they have to discuss in private.

MacCready searches through the ammunition bench, checking for any extra rounds. He replaces the 10mms he's used up, but there are no .308s. Counting out how many he already has, he decides against making new ones. It's time consuming and he isn't very good at it.

Piper bounds around the house, her face smeared with dirt, “Robert!” She exclaims, throwing her arms around his shoulders. “I've been here for days with only Vishnu for company. It's been awful.” 

MacCready laughs, “Where’s Garvey?”

She wrinkles her nose, “Minutemen stuff. He wouldn't take me with him.”

“His loss,” MacCready keeps one arm around her waist. “Though, do you think it was really Minutemen stuff?”

Piper shrugs her shoulders, “Preston doesn't seem the lying type, does he?”

“I guess not?”

“Point is, you're here to save me from boredom.”

“What are we supposed to be doing next? More scaving? We still don't have anyone who can read the teleporter plans.”

“I assume that is what Nick and Vishnu are talking about now.” She pauses, “Wait, where’s the stray?” She drops her arms back to her sides.

MacCready replies, “He said he needed to get dressed,” he keeps his arms around her waist, picking her up off the ground, though he can't support her weight for long. She's about the only person he comes in contact with who’s small enough that he can toss around, though she's a bit heavier than he is.

“Idiot! You were supposed to watch him!”

No one told MacCready that.

He and Piper head off in the direction he last saw Danse walking, and MacCready realizes his error. Danse’s power armor is next to Weiss’ in the garage. Danse headed back towards the hill, towards where 111 is supposed to be. If it were his job to keep Danse away from Weiss and Nick, he's failed, because the three of them stand by the stream. Well, Weiss has his shoes and socks in his hand, his feet in the frigid water, pants rolled up to mid calf. Nick and Danse stand on the shore.

“Act natural,” Piper hisses.

Weiss waves to them, gesturing for Piper and MacCready to join them. He lights a cigarette, tucking his shoes under his arm to free his hands. Nick’s is already burning. “Just in time,” Weiss calls. “I was just going to send Danse to find you.”

That dirty liar. Danse is still in his jeans and flannel.

“Piper,” Weiss holds out his hand for her to take, but she keeps her feet firmly on dry ground, “you, me, and Val are going to see some people about some real estate. Favor for Garvey.”

MacCready doesn't like this. He doesn't like this one bit.

“MacCready, you and Danse need to go to Graygarden. Something about the water supply. Supervisor White will fill you in. I trust you two can handle it,” Weiss squeezes Piper’s hand. “I know you can handle it,” he smiles.

Babysitting. His job description right now is definitely babysitting. More than that, it means another stretch of time away from Nick. And MacCready can tell well enough that if Danse isn’t going, this isn’t really an errand for Garvey. Which begs the question, what job needs Nick and Piper but not him? But it isn’t his place to question.

“Okay,” MacCready nods, we’re on it.” He doesn’t miss Danse’s expression, the look of quiet, barely contained distress. Yeah, well, MacCready doesn’t like this one bit either, so, there’s that. He wishes he still smoked, then he’d have something to do with his hands and mouth, other than sigh and say, “You can count on us.”

\--

Supervisor White is worried about the water. She is afraid that the crops will fail, as pollution locks into the soil. They would be much more efficient, were the water clean.

Neither MacCready nor Danse are are particularly inclined to take direction from a Mr. Handy. But Weiss asked them to do this. And MacCready understands how Greygarden fits into the Minutemen’s larger plans for the Commonwealth. An entirely self-contained food production settlement, that hasn’t needed intervention from humans in the last 200 years. All those crops having gone to waste for years, and now they’re in a position to take advantage. So when Supervisor White coos at them, asking to clear the water treatment plant and see what’s going on, MacCready cringes, but he knows they should just go ahead and do as the robot says.

Danse is even more uncomfortable, his hands on his laser rifle and his weight shifting from foot to foot. MacCready doesn’t have the same sort of charm Weiss does, he doesn’t want to have it, so there was no way of preventing Danse from wearing his armor, Brotherhood of Steel emblem and all. The robots don’t seem to mind, but it still makes MacCready uncomfortable. He doesn’t know, it’s a bit like...the Brotherhood were like the monsters outside the cave entrance, sure as any deathclaw or yao guai, they were monsters that snapped up children, broke their bones and made them into something new. The residents of Little Lamplight knew adults were as dangerous as any beast.

The Brotherhood keep Squires. Some of them are their own children, born into the faction. But not all are. Not all have the choice. 

MacCready doesn’t know much at all about Danse. Whether he was one of those children or not. Why he wears the emblem across his chest, deeper than that too. Because he seems so hopelessly attached, to the Brotherhood, but to Weiss too, and it’s going to tear him in two.

Not that MacCready cares. They walk towards the water treatment plant in silence. MacCready misses the smell of smoke, so obviously absent, as they travel together.

He’s not sure Danse will take orders from him either. Probably not. But MacCready has got to try, because he sure doesn’t want to end up dead. He wants to make it out the other side, tell Nick he still loves him, and hear nothing in reply. He wants to hold Duncan in his arms again, and not be lying when he says he’s helped the world, it’s a better place because of him.

“Mirelurk eggs,” Danse observes, just out on the edge of the water treatment plant. 

MacCready uses his scope to focus in, watching the waterline, checking out the doors to the plant. “It’s flooded, probably full of them.”

“Aim for their heads, shooting the shell won’t do much good.”

MacCready rolls his eyes, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Danse sneers.

MacCready points his rifle down into the dirt, facing Danse instead. In the armor he’s impossibly large, something like eight inches taller than MacCready, maybe more. And he’s huge even without the armor, not excessively tall, but still big. Still, MacCready isn’t going to wilt under the likes of him. He’s not going to be bullied.

“Yeah, I do, I’ve been at this for a long time, so maybe you should shut up and listen for once. Might do you some good.”

“Your tactics have nearly gotten Weiss killed multiple times, I’ve witnessed it. They’re reckless, undisciplined.”

“Yeah, yeah, pull out all those three-cap words you know, I’ve heard them before, from you. And I’m going to keep hearing them because I’m going to keep both of us alive.” MacCready draws his scope again, trying to decide what enterance to use. “Okay, we go in through the front. You should lead, since you’re in the toaster suit.”

Danse does not look amused.

“I’ll follow up behind you.”

“We should use explosives, it’s probably most effective against the mirelurks.”

This guy thinks he knows…”No, we need the plant to be operational when we leave. We probably just need to drain it. If we start tossing frags, what happens when we explode the machinery, huh?”

Danse is quiet, thinking it over. “Then what do we do?”

“Aim for their faces, like you said.” MacCready detaches the silencer from his pistol. There’s no point to it if Danse’s weapon is going to make a racket, though laser starts out quieter than conventional ammunition. “And always shoot the hatchlings first. Always.”

Danse shakes his head, “That doesn’t make any sense. They do minimal damage when compared to the mature adults.”

“Until you got twenty of them crawling up your hide. So yeah, squish them first. Also, remember, I’m not armored.”

“You should be,” Danse corrects, like it’s so obvious MacCready is some sort of idiot.

“Do your job, and it won’t matter.”

\--

The mirelurks are dense inside, clutches of eggs, full grown adults, they come in swarms and die in heaps. MacCready wishes they could have used explosives. That would have cut the amount of time he spends in soaked clothes, covered in bits of shell and lurk.

He’s dimly aware that he’s freezing. His feet, his legs, his hands. The water is too cold and all his extra layers do is pack on weight as they get wet. At any given time, the water only comes up as far as his knees, but the splashing of the lurks soaks him through to the bone.

Danse always misses slightly to the left, before correcting and hitting his target. Over and over, slightly too far left, then dead on target. MacCready wonders what could be wrong with his eyesight or balance or whatever, that he makes the same mistake like clockwork. Maybe one eye is stronger than the other. Or something.

As they clear the lurks, they have to open and close the gates, rushing water from one holding area into the next until the levels stabilize. As the depth drops, more lurks stir awake, ready to defend their young. Danse smashes their eggs with his boots. He follows directions, killing the young first, before moving onto their shrieking mothers.

MacCready’s pistol hardly does a thing, unless he can manage to catch them in the eye. And their faces are so small, well protected. He switches back to his sniper rifle, hanging further and further back, so he has the space and time to shoot around Danse. That works much better.

Once the facility is cleared of lurks, they’ve got to make sure that everything is operational. Neither of them are much for engineering, though. “So they don’t teach you any of this stuff in the Brotherhood?” MacCready wipes down years of sentiment from the control panel. At least he knows how to work away the dirt. Gives him something to do other than stare at the dials in confusion.

“I’m a soldier, not a scientist,” Danse runs his fingers over the buttons and switches, but doesn’t press anything either. They’re in so much trouble. Way over their heads. Killing the mirelurks was easy. This? They are not the men for this.

And neither of them wants to really admit it.

“But, okay,” MacCready rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “So we have to bring the station back online. That’s a big thing, so let’s look for a big button. Yeah? Yeah.” Only there are three big buttons, and a lever too. The labels, if there ever were any, have worn off.

“Generally,” Danse grunts, “objects of some importance are placed...centrally.”

So what’s the worst that can happen? It’s not like a water treatment plant comes equipped with nukes or anything, right? MacCready hits the button that is in the middle of the console, and it’s big, and red. Three things that just scream “important!”

The turbines come to life, starting to move water with a heavy whirl. MacCready breathes a sigh of relief, so does Danse.

“See,” MacCready bites his lip, “easy.”

\--

Supervisor White is overjoyed. It says that the water is running cleaner than ever. Well, in those first few years, just after the bombs fell, the water was very beautiful, very clear. But full of radiation. Now it’s still a bit murky-dark, but the plants don’t mind the color. 

It’s too late to head back to Sanctuary, and MacCready is fairly sure that Weiss will be gone for at least a few days, if not more. So he decides to stay at Graygarden, at least for the night. Which means he’s got to keep Danse here too, whether or not he wants to stay.

“I’ll cook dinner,” MacCready offers, already heading to the firepit.

He’s relieved when Danse follows, because if he were to start running off, MacCready’s options are limited. He can’t pierce the armor, even with a .308. And he can’t run as fast. And he can’t convince Danse to stay through pretty words. So, he’s stuck with the offer of a hot meal, and maybe a couple hours of sleep. 

Lighting the campfire, MacCready says nothing. He’s going to roast some of the tatos, maybe carrots too. They’ll cook faster if he cuts them. But first, he has to get out of his wet clothes. He pulls his shirts first, grabbing a dry one from his pack. He doesn’t have fresh pants, but he does have boxers.

Danse stares at him. It’s weird, unnerving. The way he barely moves. “This ain’t a free show,” he barks. And Danse turns away.

Once he’s changed, MacCready starts on the food. He pulls a knife from his pack, so he can cut the vegetables.

Danse finally comes out of his suit. The thing stands on its own, like some sort of metal corpse. MacCready doesn’t like it.

Sitting by the fire, Danse wraps his arms around his knees while MacCready cooks, tossing the carrots, tatos, and melon rind into the pot. The rind will give just a tiny bit of sweetness. But it’s not meant to be eaten.

“Where do you think they are?” Danse asks.

Mechanically, MacCready answers, “That settlement Garvey sent them to check out.” He hopes he’s a good enough liar.

Danse tilts his head, “I don’t think so.”

“What does it matter? We have our assignment,” he checks the pot, not wanting the vegetables to overcook, but also so he has something to do. 

Danse sighs, “I don’t see why he left me behind.”

This is not a conversation MacCready is equipped to have. “He knew we could take care of the water problem. And we did. Do you think some other combination would have been better? Nick would get waterlogged, Garvey wasn’t around, he doesn’t like sending Piper-”

“Does he love her?” 

The question takes MacCready back. Because for a time, he was morbidly curious too. But he’s accepted that’s not his business. 

“I don’t think so.” He tries to be very interested in their dinner, spooning it out onto tin plates and handing one to Danse before sitting down himself. Maybe if their mouths are full of food, Danse won’t ask anymore uncomfortable questions. 

But Danse only picks at the corners, “I know he loves Nate.”

“Yeah,” MacCready can lie, but this isn’t the time for it. “He does.”

“He’s doing all of this for a dead man.”

MacCready chews as loudly as he can manage. “I suppose so.”

“Why are you here?” Danse asks quite directly. 

“Want to make the world better. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”

Danse shakes his head but answers, “Yes.”

They’re quiet long enough for MacCready to finish eating. If Danse wasn’t hungry, he could have had the courtesy to say something. 

“What are you doing, with the synth?”

Now MacCready desperately needs to lie.

Because Danse is huge. With thick arms and a heavy laser rifle. But he’s also incredibly broken, chasing every scrap of meaning the Brotherhood has offered him. Stitching it to his sleeve so he’s not naked in the cold. It’s the same reason he follows Weiss, even though maybe none of them should. But the same admiration doesn’t extend to MacCready. 

So MacCready’s survival instinct says to lie. But again, he can’t.

“I love him.”

“He’s not a person. He’s a machine.”

“I don’t care.”


	24. Transitions Between States of Being and States of Living/Dying

The Railroad leader says they may as well strike Weiss and his companions where they stand. But the man in sunglasses says it’s cool, they're cool. He's been watching them for ages, these are friends that the Railroad want.

“Besides,” the man smiles, walking over to Valentine and throwing his arm over his shoulders, “Who could say no to a mug like this one?”

The room is dark, save for a single spotlight that a short, densely muscled woman, with white hair and dark skin, shines on the trio of Piper, Weiss, and Valentine. The ground under their feet is wet, and when anything at all moves, the sound echoes off the brick walls. 

The Railroad has every right to be cautious. Valentine only wishes they could stand on dry ground, rather than getting their pant legs soaked. 

The blonde woman drags from her cigarette. “Deacon, what is this about?”

“I told you Dez, about my special project. Well, the tall, jittery one over there is him.”

Weiss waves, smiling bright, “Vishnu Weiss, pleased to meet you.”

Her mouth settles in a thin line, “So this is the man who came out of the vault?”

“I see my reputation precedes my arrival.” He taps a cigarette against the pack, “Take it I can smoke in here?” He gestures to her hand.

“Go right ahead,” she taps off her ash.

Deacon leans forward, nearly taking Valentine with him, “And, you’ll never believe this. Rumor is, they killed a Courser.”

Desdemona’s eyes go wide. “Is this true?”

“Didn't see the kill myself,” Deacon admits. “But I saw them walk out of the C.I.T. with handfuls of synth guts.”

“How did you know about that?” Weiss should be more suspicious, but he doesn't act it, showing teeth with a knowing smile. They're not as white as they used to be. Tinged with pink. 

Deacon waves his hands, finally releasing Valentine. “Oh, you know, I have my ways.”

“So, say that I did? That I killed a Courser. What is it worth to you?” Weiss is toying with them, but there’s no need. From the moment the dead Courser came up, the Railroad has been ready to play ball.

“Hey, hey,” Deacon raises his hands, “I'm not the one in charge here. I'm just a messenger.”

“Follow me,” Desdemona says, gesturing for them to climb up the short stairs and onto the dry platform. 

The short woman doesn’t cut them any slack, her eyes stay locked to Weiss as he passes. He smiles in her direction. She brings up the rear of the pack, just behind Piper, close on her heels. She’s an enforcer, that much is clear. 

“Welcome to the Railroad,” Desdemona gestures to the large, open room. The ceiling is low and all the available space is filled with tables, workstations, old terminals, supplies. There isn’t an inch left unused as men and women scurry about, focused on their tasks instead of the newest arrivals. “Understand, we’re taking a calculated risk here.”

“I’m telling you, Dez,” Deacon shakes his head, “they’re cool. I’ve checked. I mean,” he smiles wolfishly. “Vaultie has a pet Paladin, knew well enough not to bring him.”

Weiss snaps his head around, glaring at Deacon. For a moment, Valentine worries this is about to be a scene. That they’re going to royally fuck this up because Weiss can’t contain his tantrums. But he stops short of striking Deacon, putting his still-lit cigarette to his lips instead. “He’s not the most open minded person, I’ll admit. But he means well.”

Deacon either can’t read Weiss or has some sort of death wish. “Sure seems like you keep him on a short leash.”

Desdemona calls their attention back, “If we could continue on more pressing matters? Tom,” she calls, “there’s something you should take a look at.”

A lanky man, dressed in overalls and the strangest helmet Valentine has ever seen, comes over, his looping gait carrying him far with only a few steps. Despite his relaxed posture, he appears quite on edge, rubbing his hands together as Desdemona introduces him.

“This is Tinker Tom, our resident expert in all matters technical. If anyone in the Commonwealth can make sense of that chip. It’s Tom.”

“What sort of chip?” He steps up into Weiss’ face. Tom is tall, but not quite as tall as Weiss, who keeps his hands in his pockets and a smile wrapped around his cigarette.

Finishing his cigarette, Weiss puts it out in the nearest ashtray, offering his hand to Tom. “Courser chip. I’m trying to build a teleporter.”

“Teleportation!” Tom smacks his hand to his forehead, “Man, man, this all makes sense now,” he laughs, “teleportation! Of course. That’s why none of my scans have ever found an entrance. Wild, just, wild.”

Weiss pulls the Courser chip from his pack, holding it out so Tom can snatch it up. The engineer turns the component over and over in his hands. “Think you can make something of it?” Weiss asks.

“I’m sure as hell going to try!” Tom beams. “Okay, okay, come with me.” 

Weiss trots after Tom, hands still in his pockets. He doesn’t ask either Piper or Valentine to come with him, but Piper follows anyway. Valentine would rather spend his time talking to the other members of the Railroad, getting a better handle on what it is they do. And from the look on Deacon’s face, he’s just as excited to pick at Valentine’s brain. He’s used to it.

“Well if you’re not the least fancy synth I’ve ever seen.” Deacon bends at his waist then looks up at Valentine, like he’s trying to read him bottom to top. “Tell me, does it get drafty in there?”

“I prefer to think of myself as well-ventilated.” He holds out his cigarette pack, offering one to Deacon. 

The man waves him off. “I’m not exactly 100% organic either. Don’t want to melt my face off. Spent too much time and too many caps to get it this pretty.” Turning his head side to side, he makes sure Valentine gets a good look at his investment.

“So, you’ve had a face swap?” Valentine questions. He’s heard that it’s not uncommon, for the higher profile synths. Ones that the Institute are particularly interested in recovering. It adds a level of safety that they can’t be identified visually. 

Deacon smiles, “A couple. But doesn’t look much like you’ve been under the knife, at least of the right sort.”

“Gives me character,” Valentine counters.

“So, you’re not one of our jobs. I’d remember a mug like that. So the question becomes, how did you get out?” He seems genuinely curious. For all the banter, he’s not talking down to Valentine, just trying to keep a serious discussion light.

Valentine takes a long drag, considering his answer. “I don’t know myself. Woke up in a pile of garbage. I assume I’m trash.”

Deacon shakes his head, eyes unreadable behind his lenses, “The Institute don’t just throw synths out. At least not up on the surface. Someone fucked up somewhere. Either that, or you got yourself out.”

“I doubt that very much,” sharing the convoluted tangle of his memories is a little much for a first date. “Maybe they thought I was broken. Maybe I am.”

“Hey!” Weiss calls him from across the room, “Val, I could use you for a sec!” 

Piper’s leaned over Tom’s shoulder, watching as lines of code surge by. From Tom’s ecstatic yelps, he seems to be able to make sense of the mess. But Valentine sure can’t. Weiss stands straight, not bothering to look at the screen.

“What is it?”

“Tink here seems to believe he’s going to have this worked out soon.”

“Boy do I believe. This is a goldmine. It’ll take me months, maybe years to sort it all. But don’t worry. I got you on the teleporter. I’ll pull that info first.”

“But we still have the problem of how to get this back to Sturges in a format he can work with,” Weiss explains. “The chip is still the chip, and I told Tink he can keep working with it after we go.”

Valentine isn’t a hundred percent sure this is an alliance they can just form without any lasting consequences. Really, he likes the idea of helping the Railroad. He feels a pull, somewhere in his mind, that makes him want to help his fellow synth. Because he can only remember freedom. Slavery, the lack of will, terrifies him. Still, there are more moving pieces than just him and Weiss. While he doubts Piper would object, after all, she’s here, she’s fascinated, she’s a good woman who understands the vast swath of moral gray, there are other people to consider. 

“What if the Brotherhood find out?”

Weiss is quick to answer, “They won’t.”

“So you won’t tell Danse?” Valentine doesn’t believe that. Not for a second. 

“I’ll tell him what he needs to know.”

Valentine groans, that’s not an acceptable answer.

“Okay, okay. The Brotherhood is definitely finding out,” Weiss admits. “But that information won’t do them any good. Listen, the guys in the blimp know they can’t get to the Institute. They don’t know why they can’t. But they know. As soon as we activate this teleporter, it doesn’t matter where we build it. They will know.”

It’s true. There’s no way for them to conceal something like this. Not from the Brotherhood, not from the Railroad, not from the Institute themselves. Everyone will know. Pretty soon, the whole Wasteland will know every scrap of information there is to be dredged up on all of them. 

“But it’s also my bargaining chip. So I’ve got to keep playing both sides. It’s the only way to make this work. It’s the only way to help.”

Valentine wants to be able to say Weiss is delusional. That the drugs are starting to curdle his brain. But Valentine’s been around a long time. A lot of people have tried a lot of things to make this world a better place, and none of them have come as close as Weiss has. So when Valentine looks into his eyes, red-rimmed and overworked, and sees the sincerity there, he believes.

“We store the plans on me. Problem solved.”

Weiss smiles brightly, clapping Valentine on the shoulder. “Fucking amazing. Great.”

Valentine can’t say he particularly likes being used as a mobile hard drive, but there are worse alternatives. It’s clearly too much information to travel on Weiss’ Pipboy. And it will be safer with Valentine anyway.

“Okay, sure,” Tom spins around in his chair, nearly knocking into Piper, who doesn’t get out of the way fast enough. “So let’s hook you in, buddy.”

Taking off his coat, then his tie, Valentine sits in the chair next to Tom, waiting to be plugged in.

\--

After the Courser information is downloaded into Valentine, he feels...strange. It’s not entirely unpleasant. Tom has taken the time to add folders, sorting information into neat chunks that can be loaded individually. All Struges should have to do is get the folder labeled “TELEPORTATION and other travel junk.” 

But all the other Courser data is there too. Weiss’ insurance plan, if something happens to the original chip. Valentine is now the backup. He’s not one to make a habit of flipping through his own internal files. The first time he tried it, it was so disorienting, the way Nick Valentine grated against the synth programming. Gave him a headache. Figuratively. Still, he wants to know what’s there. What it is he’s signed up for, in letting yet another consciousness inside of his. Kellogg is all the way gone, he thinks. Maybe he managed to write over the last tendrils of the merc. But now this Courser is in there, even if he’s inert. 

There are files on targets he’s meant to acquire. There are files that could give Valentine perfect aim. There’s a folder labeled, “You.”

“You-Z2-47.”

What is “you?”

Valentine doesn’t open it. That would be an invasion.

Somewhere, there’s a file called Nick Valentine. Well, maybe literally called that. But there’s the lines of code that mimic a man who has been dead for 210 years. At least, Valentine assumes he’s dead.

He looks through that file instead.

23042034_nvalentine_16022077

He looks inside

personnel_vweiss_08122074  
personnel_vweiss_09122074  
personnel_vweiss_24012076  
personnel_vweiss_25012076

They go on and on, in inconsistent batches..

The first file is very small.

A flicker, barely five seconds long. Weiss, with his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, his hair tied back, slicked down. He’s smiling, but that’s not unusual. But the woman standing in front of him is cross, but she contains her anger. Jennifer.

“Don’t let that asshole get to you, Jennifer.” 

Valentine pulls her away.

That’s all there is. He doesn't dare touch the other files.

\--

Garvey and Sturges are in the garage, happy to see the party return. Weiss asks Garvey for a progress report on the Castle, if it’s ready to start sending new recruits to station there. 

“Should be, the crops should start coming in once spring hits. Until then, I’d say we’re stocked for another fifteen.”

“Good,” Weiss smiles, avoiding Sturges’ eyes. “Well, Val can help you with the blueprints. I’d better check in on the others.” 

Garvey doesn’t take Weiss’ behavior to heart. Because at this point, it’s no longer odd. Weiss and Struges can barely be within ten feet of each other without the air growing thick with hostility. Neither man seems particularly keen to talk about it. And it may well be that they don’t need resolution. But they need to be able to work with each other.

“Do you need anything before we get started?” Sturges asks Valentine with a smile.

“Is Robert around?” Valentine figures everyone knows at this point. 

“I can grab him?” Garvey offers. 

Valentine nods. He pulls the cable Tom shoved into his hands before they left Railroad HQ. “Yeah just bring him over if he’s not busy.”

“Sorry to have to do this,” Sturges gives him a smile before plugging one end of the cord into his terminal, the other he lets Valentine attach to himself.

Valentine explains, as if it isn’t obvious enough, “The plans should have their own file.”

Robert reaches the garage. He’s not wearing his duster, but still bundled under sweaters. Valentine wonders what he’ll look like come spring, when his layers melt off. If he’ll look even more like a fine-boned bird. Or if by then his waist will thicken, his arms too. 

“You’re back,” Robert smiles.

“Didn’t think I would make it?”

“Didn’t even know where you went,” Robert frowns.

Valentine can’t argue with that. But he’s still unsure how Robert would react if he knew. “Sit with me, while we work on this, yeah?”

Robert nods, pulling up another chair across from Valentine. He plants his feet in Valentine’s lap, slouching down in the chair until he’s comfortable. “Will this take long?”

Sheepishly, Sturges admits, “Don’t know. But it’s definitely moving faster than last time I tried to open the files.”

“You’re the teleporter?” eyes wide, Robert asks, “You’re the teleporter?” the pitch of his voice rises.

Valentine shakes his head, “I’m just storing the blueprints. We’ll still have to build it.”

Relaxing a little, Robert says, “Okay, alright.” And after a pause, “Where were you?”

Lying seems the best option, but Valentine doesn’t take it. “The Railroad. They’re helping us.”

Robert shakes his head, “What? Why…”

“Because, we couldn’t figure out the Courser data. They helped. That’s all.” If he can avoid it, Valentine doesn’t want to have this argument with his skull plugged into an outdated terminal scraping his insides.

“Is...is Weiss going to help them? Are we going to help them?” Robert is visibly nervous.

“Would that be so bad?”

“What if you get hurt? The Institute is looking for them all the time. The Brotherhood too. What if you’re found out?”

Oh. Valentine feels overwhelmed. Between Sturges’ transfer and Robert’s words of concern. Like being light headed. There’s not enough processing to handle everything at once. That Robert’s first thoughts are of him, and not of how humans come before synths. He may still be an exception, some mistake in Robert’s perception of the world. His forgetting, his remembering. But it’s a beautiful mistake, isn’t it?

“You’ll just have to keep me safe then, won’t you?”

Robert scowls, “We’re all idiots here.”


	25. 'Disrepair' is a Lie We Tell Ourselves as Justification for Giving Up

The teleporter goes up faster than MacCready thinks possible. All of Sanctuary contributes, following Sturges’ instructions to the letter. Each person assigned a place, a task.

All the scaving MacCready and Piper did in the weeks prior pay off. They have everything they need to make this work. MacCready’s job now is just to strip old copper wire from its insulation. So he sits for hours, untangling long cords and ripping the rubber off with fine pliers. He suspects he ended up with this particular job because he has small hands. Piper gets to work on cutting the wire up into the right lengths and then delivering it to the team that needs it to run electricity from each terminal and back. 

They still haven’t tried turning the contraption on. It’s bigger than MacCready thought it would be, standing almost eleven feet high at the tallest point. Three long legs that stretch from the glass dome above all the way back down to the platform. It’s attached to two separate terminals that they can only cover with heavy plastic sheets overnight. If it rains, he’s not sure what they’ll have to do to keep the electrics dry. 

Three new generators are built to power the thing, when they’re all on, it turns Sanctuary into a smoggy mess. But if that’s the amount of power this is going to take to get the teleporter running, not much they can do about that. The smoke burns the inside of MacCready’s nostrils.

As the date approaches, a man who MacCready has never seen before comes to Sanctuary. He’s tall and lean, dressed in overalls and a hat with many lenses. Weiss calls him ‘Tink.’ He laughs a lot and sticks close to Weiss’ side. He tries to make Danse smile.

MacCready goes back to stripping wires. Though he doubts they’ll need much more.

“You can stop, you know?” Nick sits next to him on the ground, knees bent and bumping against the insides of his elbows. After a moment, his body heats up at MacCready’s side. “I think we have more than we need.”

MacCready tosses down the cutters. “He’s going to turn it on tomorrow,” MacCready is sure of it.

Nick nods, throwing his arms over his knees instead, letting them hang over his shins. “I’m certain.”

“Are you going with him?” If Nick goes, MacCready worries it will be the last time he sees him. He can’t believe anyone is coming back from the Institute. Weiss has led them all on a very expensive, very elaborate suicide mission. But at least they tried.

“No. I’m not. No one is,” Nick stares at the hulking beast in the center of Sanctuary. Like some nightmarish torture device. “Just Weiss.”

MacCready breathes easier, assured that Nick isn’t going. He’s not stupid enough to risk himself. But they’ve come so far along this path. If Weiss were to ask for volunteers, MacCready doesn’t know. Maybe he would offer himself up, if the options were between himself and Nick.

Lighting his cigarette, Nick keeps talking. “We got confirmation already that the Brotherhood knows.”

“Of course they do,” MacCready scowls. “They don’t care about him. They’re just using him.”

“True, but Weiss knows as much. He’s known this whole time.” Nick puts his cigarette out in the dirt. It’s not finished, not even close. Reaching his hand for MacCready’s, they sit together. MacCready rests his head on Nick’s shoulder. “The moment of truth, I suppose.”

MacCready exhales, “Yeah.”

\--

Privacy is hard to come by. There’s a lot of land that makes up Sanctuary, but still too few buildings. Most of the residents sleep in one large common building lined with cots along the walls. There are no individual rooms in the structure yet. All of their attention had to be shifted from rebuilding the settlement to constructing the teleporter.

MacCready keeps his boots on, waiting for Nick to arrive. Nick had something to discuss with Weiss. Again, he’s been excluded. But it’s not surprising. Nick and Weiss are friends. MacCready is still the hired help, even if he’s no longer getting paid.

No one else has come to bed yet. It’s just a little past dinner time. But Nick said he’d meet MacCready here. 

Spring is breaking, and he doesn’t need so many sweaters anymore. MacCready plays with the hem of his tee. He’s got a long sleeve on under that. Because it’s still not that warm in the Commonwealth. He’s not sure the chill of this winter will ever leave him.

“Robert?” Nick’s standing at the threshold of the building. His hands on either side of the doorframe. “Want to go for a walk?”

Walks with Nick tend to end in a particular way. So MacCready pushes himself out of bed, leaving his duster behind. They close up the building behind them. Most of the settlers and Weiss’ friends are still bustling through the garage and kitchen and campfire. Trying to make the best of things, before everything potentially falls to apart again. But maybe MacCready is just being a pessimist.

Nick takes his hand and they walk out to the edge of Sanctuary, where the buildings have been stripped bare but nothing new has been put into place yet. This settlement could be huge, dozens of people safe upon the hill. There will always be raiders, and mutants, and ferals. There will always be things that want to kill them. But MacCready is already happy for those who may find a home here.

It won’t be his home, though.

“Clear night,” Nick observes, squeezing MacCready’s hand.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not cold?” he asks.

MacCready doesn’t mind nipping at such obvious bait. He wants to get hooked. “A little.”

Nick shucks off his trenchcoat. Draping it over MacCready’s shoulders, he stands in place behind him, wrapping his arms around too. Heat radiates from his chest, warming MacCready’s back. Crossing his arms over his chest, MacCready holds onto Nick’s arms too. 

They stand like that, watching the moon over the remains of Boston. The quiet sounds of the settlers blurring together. 

“I wish I could be a better man.” Nick cranes his neck down to kiss the side of MacCready’s head. His voice is still there, at his ear. “I wish I could be what you need.”

“You are,” MacCready looks for the right words. Too often, they evade him. “I haven’t earned any of this. But I’ve been so lucky. Some people don’t get to love, even once. Here I am, a killer, a liar, a cheat, and I’ve gotten to feel it twice.” It’s irrelevant if Nick loves him back, because sometimes, his own affections are enough to sustain him. That Nick likes him, enjoys his company, wants him, is satisfied. That’s enough that MacCready can be happy. Because, yeah, some people don’t even get this.

Nick sighs, “Did you eat enough?”

Smiling, MacCready responds, “I think so.”

“You're not nearly as terrible as you think you are,” Nick says. Doesn't matter if that's true or not. The truth is only important in so far as someone believes it. And MacCready is pretty sure Nick believes his own words, because he's not prone to lying. Concealing the truth, maybe, but not outright lies.

“And you're not nearly as cold.”

“Yeah, well,” Nick bites back, “way to treat your own personal space heater.”

MacCready turns in the circle of Nick’s arms, careful to keep the trench over his shoulders. Nick's eyes are quite literally brighter than the moon. There are only two settings. On and off. No half-lidded in between. No cloudy tears. No uncertainty. Oh, Nick’s brow can furrow, he can raise an eyebrow when he's shocked. But, though he has eyelids, he doesn't use them to blink. MacCready has never seen him shut his eyes, only turn them off.

“Close your eyes,” MacCready’s voice is just above a whisper.

Nick shakes his head, “They don't work like that any more. Haven't for a long time.”

“Just try,” MacCready swallows, “please.”

Nick humors him, digging his fingers into MacCready’s hips and standing up a little straighter. From the quirk of his lip, Nick just looks so ready to prove MacCready wrong. But, with an uncanny naturalness, Nick’s eyelids shut. But his eyes are so bright, MacCready can still make out the warm yellow glow in the darkness of the night, illuminating the thin layer of silicone eyelids. MacCready reaches up, pressing the pads of his fingers lightly against Nick’s lid, watching as the light reaches his finger tips.

“We’re so weird,” MacCready laughs. They've both accepted this. At least, it's something like acceptance.

With his eyes still shut, Nick smiles, his lips parting slightly. “Weird, ugly, and broken down. What a set of winners.” He opens his eyes again, catching MacCready staring. 

MacCready tells himself that this will be the last time he says it. But he's a liar. So it won't be. “I love you.”

Nick blinks, as if he's realized something about himself. The way he's been fit together. What's the word? Assemblage? Of metal and plastics and silicone and whatever else. MacCready doesn't even know. Oh, human. Because Nick will always be, in part, human. 

“I love you too, Bobby,” Nick says.

MacCready forgets to breathe, “Don't lie to me.” The only lies he’ll accept anymore are his own.

“I love you,” leaning forward, Nick kisses him, until they breathe. They don't stop, even as Nick scrapes his fingers across MacCready’s abdomen. The friction nearly makes MacCready laugh, but he moans instead, into Nick’s mouth, sputtering vibrations through them both. “It's too cold out here,” Nick looks around.

“I'm fine,” MacCready assures, his hands gripping onto the back of Nick’s waistband,

“Fine enough for me to fuck you in the dirt?” Nick teases, “because if I don't get you inside.”

MacCready’s ears flush. “More private out here.” Too many people at the settlement are still awake. And with tomorrow's big event, they're unlikely to settle down. They'll never find space where they can be alone.

Nick smirks, “Remember you asked for it.”

It really is too cold to strip all the way down, but Nick takes his trench from MacCready’s shoulders, spreading it on the ground. He sits down first, legs stuck out straight, before coaxing MacCready to spread his legs over his hips. Pulling at MacCready’s zipper, he manages to work his erection out.

Nick’s hand is warm against his cock, stroking it firmly, adjusting his rhythm until MacCready squirms in his lap. With a hand at his back, Nick holds MacCready against him, keeping their bodies close. Nick whispers in his ear, “We’re in this storm together. I love you.”

“I love you,” MacCready touches inside Nick’s neck, searching out a new sensation. He always finds something new. Something surprising, makes him rethink his assumptions. “Love you.”

Nick smiles as MacCready shudders against him. He's going to ruin both their clothes, but he doesn't care. Nick feels too good, the heat of his body, the pressure of his hand. He's too solid and real. And he loves him, even if that love is run through of fissures. The damage of their lives so far. But that dismisses nothing. Because all they have are scraps. A world of ruin. But that also means they can build anything from the wreckage, as long as they try. Nothing is new anymore. But old things have value too. Pieced together affections.

MacCready rests his head against Nick’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Nick gently tucks him back into his slacks, but doesn't bother with the zipper. Uses his time to kiss the side of MacCready’s head instead, coming around to his cheek, his lips.

\--

Weiss takes very little with him. His laser pistol. Sixty rounds. Two tins of mentats. His pipboy. 

The sky is clear and the air cold as they stand around the teleporter. Tinker Tom is at one console, Sturges at the other. It takes both of them to run the machine, apparently. MacCready won't pretend to know how it works.

Danse’s hand is wrapped around Weiss’, his eyes full of worry and rage in equal measure. Very rarely does MacCready concede he understands Danse. But this might be one of those times. MacCready can't hear their conversation. But he can guess, from the way Danse wrenches Weiss’ arm. Weiss pulls away, his voice louder. “I'm the only one who can do this.”

Danse’s mouth opens, then shuts. He says something else.

Stepping in next to him, Nick takes MacCready’s hand. But he's not one to pull away. “The moment of truth.”

“For all of us,” MacCready agrees.

Weiss kisses Danse, open mouthed in front of all of Sanctuary. Under the endless sky. The hum of the teleporter coming to life drowns out the cries of crows. 

For a moment, MacCready fears that Danse is going to throw himself into the machine as well, but he stays rooted in place as Weiss steps away, heading up the platform, hands jammed into his pinstriped slacks.

He doesn't say goodbye.

Just vanishes.

Turning his head, MacCready watches Nick’s face, yellow eyes still glued to where Weiss no longer stands. He blinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I've appreciated every bit of feedback I've gotten as I worked on this project. I hope it was a good read. I had a great time writing it. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to leave kudos and comment on this fic. It really kept my motivation up while working on it, and it was so amazing getting to share my excitement.
> 
> I'll be continuing with [Long, Slow Fade](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5561593/chapters/12827155) which focuses on the Weiss/Danse relationship. There is overlap between the two stories, and eventually, it will extend beyond the Institute (though not quite to end-game)
> 
> Also, you know, [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com) where I have bad opinions and yell into the void.


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